


Valonqar

by H3L



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 128,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3L/pseuds/H3L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lannister's lives are interrupted when Joanna Lannister dies in the birthing bed. Her favorite cousin, Lord Selwyn Tarth, comes to Casterly Rock not long after her death and brings with him his son, Galladon, and his daughter, Brienne.</p><p>Years later Jaime, in chains, must face a very different Brienne than he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've just started this work and, I have to be honest, I have no idea where it's going or how fast it will get there.
> 
> Comments and criticism are welcome! 
> 
> The rating is for plans I have for later chapters but we'll get there.

Jaime was only nine when his mother died. One day she was large with child, happy and smiling. He remembered how she had told him before she went into the birthing room, sweat coating her brow and her eyes bright, “you’re going to be a big brother.” It seemed in the next moment she was in the Sept, pale and cold on a slab of grey-green rock and his brother’s squalling was echoing off the walls of the stone Sept. 

It was the last time he saw her. He cried but his father, with Jaime’s new little brother wailing in his arms, pinched Jaime’s shoulder until he stopped. Cersei wept all day, wringing her little hands in her skirts with glassy, red-rimmed green eyes. That night she tried to sneak into his room, as she so often did, but he kept the door bolted. 

The next day his mother’s cousin Lord Selwyn arrived. 

Selwyn was the Lord of Tarth, a small island off of the Eastern Coast, and his mother had been Jaime’s grandmother’s sister. Lord Selwyn looked older than Jaime’s father, but he had a kind face. He brought with him his son Galladon and his little daughter Brienne. Galladon was two years younger than Jaime, he had brownish blond hair and freckles were sprinkled across his face like sand. His eyes were green like Jaime’s, they could almost have been brothers. Galladon’s little sister Brienne was a mere three years old and had the same dark blond hair and freckles. Her eyes, though, were big and blue and she made much less noise than Galladon, who was rambunctious and wild. Galladon said she had their mother’s eyes. Galladon’s mother had died not long after giving birth to Brienne but Galladon never blamed her and he told Jaime not to blame Tyrion. He’d said to Jaime, on a particularly clear day as they sat on the steps of the Sept that held the body of Joanna Lannister, “it isn’t Tyrion’s fault, how could a little baby kill anyone?”

Not long after the death of Joanna Lannister did Lord Tywin return to King’s Landing and Lord Selwyn return to Tarth. Galladon and Brienne remained at Casterly Rock, though neither Jaime nor Galladon knew why. 

They both tried to convince Cersei, after their fathers had gone, but she didn’t believe them when they told her it wasn’t Tyrion’s fault. When Jaime caught her in Tyrion’s room, twisting his pale skin with her thin fingers and sharp nails, he and Galladon started taking turns guarding the nursery like knights. Eventually Cersei stopped coming but the boys kept on guarding the nursery, playing inside with Tyrion and Brienne whenever they found the time and weren’t training with Casterly Rock’s Master-At-Arms. 

By the time Brienne turned four, and started following after her big brother and his companion in earnest, she started to come to the yard and watch as Galladon and Jaime trained. Galladon was bigger, taller and stronger than Jaime even though he was younger but Jaime was faster and more skilled. She would sit on one of the barrels in the corner of the yard, her long legs kicking haphazardly against the wood. She was only a foot or so shorter than Cersei already by that time, who was five years her senior. She wasn’t a pretty girl but Jaime never noticed. He and her brother would show off for her and she would always clap and holler whenever he or Galladon would make the other yield. It didn’t matter who the victor was. 

Cersei never clapped. She would sit sullenly, doing cross-stitch and watching from an upstairs window with Septa Halisa. Jaime could feel her watching him, he always knew when she was, and would avoid looking up. He was afraid to meet her eyes. He had let her slip back into his room only a few months earlier and she’d taken to coming in every night. She would complain about Septa Halisa and their father, but she hated Galladon and complained that he wanted to steal Jaime from her. She said he treated Galladon and Brienne better than he treated her and Tyrion. Tyrion was three years younger than Brienne, so he remained in the nursery with his wet nurse instead of being able to watch Jaime and Galladon in the yard, but Jaime would have welcomed him anyhow. 

Jaime didn’t think for a second that his sister cared for their little brother the way he did, or even the way Galladon did. She couldn;t stand even to look at him with his mismatched eyes, dark hair and twisted frame. Still, Jaime denied everything. He told her how he loved her and he loved Tyrion. He would never leave them. Never. He promised this to her over and over as he clumsily kissed her lips and told her he loved her.

He loved her. He loved her. He loved her. 

She never fully believed him. 

Galladon of House Tarth was eight years old when he died. 

Jaime, Galladon and Cersei had stood from the highest outcropping on Casterly Rock and looked down at the green swirling waters. Cersei was red-faced and angry-Galladon was not supposed to be there. This was Jaime and Cersei’s place. This was where they sat alone, holding each other and exploring each others differences beneath the glowing sun. Jaime had told Galladon though, of the outcropping, and the boys in a fit of recklessness had decided to jump from the outcropping into the churning water below. Jaime had seen other boys, older boys, jumping into the waters on the very hot days when they weren’t needed in the yard or the stables. Cersei had followed them but Jaime didn’t mind his sister and let her come. 

His head rushed and the wind whipped his long hair around his face and Galladon was laughing and smiling beside him. They asked Cersei to count to three but she refused so Galladon started running first and Jaime had to pick up speed if he wanted to catch the younger boy. Jaime was lighter, more agile, and jumped further out than Galladon without really meaning to. They both screamed as the fell. 

Jaime didn’t hear the crack as Galladon’s head struck the rocks. He didn’t notice the red in the water when he surfaced because he was looking up at the sky, at Cersei. He wanted her to clap for them, for him, but she was gone. 

She’d had gone to tell their father, who was at the Rock with King Aerys and many of the Lords of the Westerlands. When the Lord of Kayce fished Galladon’s body out of the Sunset Sea his friend was swollen and bloodless. His eyes weren’t green any longer; they were milky white, like Maestor Durren’s, and set in a face that was thick and purple. 

That night Brienne lay beside him, curled around him, her head buried in his chest and her long fingers delicately tangled in his golden hair. Her big, blue eyes were red from salty tears and his chest was wet from them. She was small, smaller than he and Cersei had been when their mother died. He tried to be strong for her, she was only four years old and her brother was the world to her, so he pressed kisses to the top of her head and wept into her hair only when she slept in his arms. 

When Cersei tried to get into Jaime’s room she found the door once again bolted. 

Every night Jaime would usher Brienne into his bedroom and fall asleep to her twirling his golden hair in between her long fingers. Every day he would spar with the Master-At-Arms while the little girl watched, no longer laughing or clapping. Her eyes were narrowed and her brow furrowed as she studied. In the evening sometimes he would let her hack at him with a light tourney sword and give her all the advice he was qualified to give. Sometimes she still wept but only ever at night. Only ever with Jaime. 

Cersei had long since quit knocking at his chamber door. He kept it locked once Brienne was inside. 

She still watched him in the yard, sometimes he caught her angry glares, sometimes he didn’t. He always felt the burn of her eyes on the back of his neck when he fought. 

Lord Selwyn returned to Casterly Rock to take Brienne home exactly two years after he left her there, just over one year from the day his son passed beneath the waves of the Sunset Sea. Brienne was sniffling sullenly beside her father, Jaime was furious. Cersei looked quietly pleased and Tyrion, who was only two years old and had never been without Brienne, was clutching at Jaime’s breeches and bawling. 

Lord Tywin was not present. 

When Lord Tywin did eventually return to Casterly Rock, a sennight later, Jaime asked why Brienne was removed from Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin told him the girl was now the only heir Lord Selwyn had and he wanted to keep her close to Tarth. When Jaime asked if he would ever see her again, his father told him, “no.” 

Cersei began sleeping in Jaime’s room again-or he in hers, whichever was more convenient. They were once again inseparable.

Not a year later, when they were both eleven, their father took Cersei to King’s Landing and Jaime was sent to Crakehall to squire for Lord Sumner Crakehall.

He doesn’t see Brienne for over 20 years.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catalyn has a proposal for Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning will follow the books/tv show (depending on whichever more suits my needs) VERY closely and with a heavy amount of pilfered dialogue (especially my favorite bits, although I'm saving my favorite Jaime quote for later). Once they are on the road though, I will be able to vary things more and more. Eventually, after the first 3 or 4 chapters, I’ll be moving into completely AU territory.
> 
> Also, I can pretty much assure you I will NOT be updating this quickly in the future. Hope you like it!
> 
> *Edited 4/23 Revisions to fix pacing problems I wasn't happy with a minor grammatical errors. Still without a beta.

_Gods, but she is tall._

It’s his first thought when he sees her step into his tiny cage. He can’t help himself, he wishes he could think of something cleverer but he’s beat, and tired of being penned like an animal. The mud had soaked into every strand of his once golden hair but between the strands he sees her very clearly. 

Brienne.

He is sure that it is her by the sigil on her shield, and seeing her with Catelyn Stark fills him with a hope he hadn’t expected. It’s enough to, almost, make him chipper. “Come to say goodbye, Lady Stark? I do believe it is my last night in this world. Is that little Brienne of Tarth with you? Come over here girl, let me have a proper look at you before I go.” 

She ignores him, as he expected she would. Catelyn Stark also ignores his remark but moves further into his little cell. He gives the older woman his attention despite the fact that he would rather speak with her companion. 

“To what do I owe this fine pleasure?” Lady Stark’s face sours. It’s obvious she can hardly stand the sight of him. He doesn’t blame her, he feels awful and probably looks worse, but somehow he knows that was not the reason. 

Catelyn Stark had already seen him, she’d interrogated him. She knew he flung her son from a window, bedded his sister and fathered Cersei’s bastards. He couldn’t imagine what more she could want from him and he couldn’t see how her being near him could possibly make her feel better. That is unless she decided to open his throat. 

“I have a proposition for you Kingslayer.”

“Might I refuse?”

He wondered too, briefly, how Brienne of Tarth ended up in service to such a cold fish like Lady Stark. Last he knew Tarth was loyal to Storm’s End, that’s Renly’s camp if he’s not mistaken. Catelyn had given him news of Renly’s camp during their last visit but she hadn’t mentioned how he and Stannis had fared thus far. Only that the Baratheon’s had joined the fray. That and Jaime remembered Brienne as being incredibly…warm. She’d been a hot blooded, maybe even a bit ill tempered as a child. Galladon’s influence, and probably his as well, he was sure. She’d been shy, certainly, but not stoic as she was right then. 

He stilled his thoughts, ignoring Catelyn, and remembered her hot breath on his neck. The look in her eyes as she clumsily thrust at him in the yard with her brother’s tourney sword in hand and sweat beading on her brow. She’d been so angry when he died. 

“Do you hear them out there?” Catelyn asks him then, bringing him out of the yard and back to his dingy cell. “They want your head.” She leaned down and produced a large flagon of wine, setting it carefully before him. Jaime eyed it suspiciously, his eyes darting between Brienne and Catelyn. She smirks and it looks mirthless on her weathered features. “I could have had your head off anytime I want. Why would I need to poison you?”

“Death by poison can seem natural. Harder to claim that my head simply fell off.” 

He leaned back against the poll he was affixed to and tilted his head up to look her in the face before bowing his neck. “However, it appears my courtesies have grown rusty in the damp of this cell, my Lady. I apologize.” To illustrate his apology Jaime reached for the flagon and drained it in one deep drink. He watched Lady Stark’s face as he drank to gauge her reaction. 

He did not fear death, for the black would come for them all eventually. Yet he did not think, by the passive look of her features, that his death would come from that particular flagon. There was no poison. After he licked his lips and settled back into his post, he felt his muscles involuntarily relax. 

“You’ve had your answers, Lady Stark. You know of my crimes against you and yours, you said yourself my honor is shit. I believe there was even a demonstration.” He eyed the pail to his far left, the one he had be relieving himself in, and the very same one she had so casually kicked over during their last meeting. “Why are you really here, Lady Stark? What is that I can do for you?” 

He took another deep quaff of wine and waited for her answer as the drink soured his tongue. He had been terribly thirsty. His tongue now loose he smiles at her smile, revealing his teeth. “It can’t be that you want company?” He wondered to himself aloud. “I hear a widow’s bed can grow very cold.”

“You are disgusting.” 

“Perhaps, though I can still be of service if that is what you wish. Slip out of that dress and we’ll see if I’m up to the task. Although,” he flicked his eyes over Catelyn Stark’s shoulder and made brief eye contact with Brienne, “I would ask you not to look, my Lady.” He addressed Brienne directly. “You are still a maiden, I assume.” 

She didn’t answer directly but she flushed red in the diffuse light and, for him, that was answer enough. 

“Good, I wouldn’t want to offend you.”

Lady Stark’s face scrunched impatiently and she took a rather decisive step forward. 

“Kingslayer-”

“Ahh, there is that name again. _Kingslayer_. And what a king he was. Here’s to Aerys Targaryan,” he lifted his flagon and poured more wine into his empty belly. “The second of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm-and to the sword I shoved in his back.” He drank deeply and stared at his captor. “A golden sword, don’t you know. Until his blood ran red down the blade.” He smiled and emptied his flagon with a flourish before setting it in front of him once more. “Those are Lannister colors, red and gold. Don’t you find that amusing Lady Stark?” 

He laughed, letting the wine infuse him with drunken recklessness. 

“Nothing you say amuses me.” She opened her mouth to continue but he was tired of her already. Jaime grabbed his flagon and held it forward, gesturing for her to refill his cup.

“You know, I don’t think I’ll fuck you after all,” he scoffed when she didn’t move to pour more wine. He tossed the flagon to the side. “You know, I’ve only ever been with one woman. I wouldn’t want to ruin that now. In my own way,” he said, tilting his head up, “I have been truer than your Ned ever was. Poor, old, dead Ned. ”

“Silence, Jaime.” It was the first thing Brienne said during the whole exchange but he ignored her plea, as strained as it was, and focused only on Catelyn Stark. 

“So who has shit for honor now, I ask you?” He leaned as far from the poll as he could. She’d been rather quiet during the exchange and he wondered at her patience. “What was the name of that bastard he fathered?”

Catalyn took a step backward and held out her hand. “Brienne.”

“No, that wasn’t it-she’s right there. Sweet little Brienne of Tarth.” He tilted his head and eyed her thoughtfully. “Not so little. Curious. I guess I’d forgotten but, I’ve shared a bed with two women then. Nevermind that. His name was Snow-bastard of the North. Such a white name…like the pretty cloaks they give us in the Kingsguard when we swear our pretty oaths.” 

It suddenly became very clear as he watched Catelyn blurrily step back to the doorway of his cage and his old friend. He was drunk. She had planned this. He groaned, knowing it was too late to do anything about it.

“Give me your sword.” Catelyn held out her hand and Brienne dutifully handed over her blade, although he noticed her large hand shake.

“I want my daughters back and I think you can get them for me. I will release you from this cell and send you to King’s Landing but in return your brother must return my daughters to me. Safe. You must swear-” 

He barked out a laugh, inadvertently interrupting her. 

“So many vows…” Jaime shook his head at the memories as they flooded before his eyes. “They make you swear and swear. Defend the King. Obey the King. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his.” He laughed again and swung his face back to Lady Stark’s. “But you must obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Lady Stark, what if your father despises the King?” 

He implored her with his eyes but she didn’t answer.

“What if the King kills the innocent and harms the weak?”

She still remained silent.

“Respect the Gods. Obey the laws. It’s too much. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking one vow or the other. I was the youngest man ever to wear the white cloak.”

“And the youngest to betray it,” she finally said to him.

“Then why make me swear?” Instead of answering him, she only continued as though she actually respected his honor-such as it was. 

“Swear that you will never again take up arms against Stark, nor Tully. Swear that you will compel your brother to honor his pledge to return my daughters safe and unharmed. Swear on your honor as a knight, on your honor as a Lannister, on your honor as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. Swear it by your sister’s life, and your father’s, and your son’s, by the old gods and the new, and I’ll send you back to your sister. Refuse, and I will have your blood.” The prick of her blade threatened his chest through the rags he wore, Jaime closed his eyes and swore. He wondered, as he did, what a Maester or Septon would think of vows sworn by drunks faced with a bloody death. 

It was irrelevant. He kept his head down and his eyes closed as they cut his cords and dragged him from his cell. They placed a bag over his head and Jaime’s world became impossibly darker.

When he next opened his eyes, bleary from a night’s drunkenness, he was on the back of a dappled mare. The air was fragrant with horse sweat and wild flowers and it never smelled so good. Jaime groaned and breathed in deep, reveling in the change from his previous surroundings. The sun warmed his neck and back though the thin cloth of his shirt as he stretched himself languidly over the back of the horse and let out a hoarse laugh. 

He was free.

He was dizzy and his arms were bound together, as were his legs, but he was still _alive_. And drunk on sunlight, he thought. More drunk than he’d been the night before on sour wine and his own honesty. He was glad of it.

“You’re awake?” The voice startled him.

Brienne. He was with Brienne. He thanked Gods he didn’t even believe in when he heard her voice. 

“I am, and it appears, I’m also still bound. Would you mind?” He held his arms up from his position over the back of the mare, though he couldn’t quite see where she was. 

“I would.” Her tone was flat.

“You’d leave me, an old friend, tied to the back of a horse all the way to King’s Landing lack a sack of grain?”

She walked around the horse and finally her waist and legs came in to view. Quite suddenly a rope was hacked and Jaime slid unceremoniously to the ground. 

“No, you can walk.” 

He looked up at her angrily from where he’d crumpled in the dirt. Her pale blond hair was matted and she was dressed all in blue and golden armor with two swords at her waist and a heavy shield slung over her back. She wore a russet colored undershirt, the color of his house, beneath her hubrick that made her skin seem all the paler and her freckles more prominent. It did though, bring out the color of her eyes, which he was please to note were still big and clear, full of fire and edged in long, yellow lashes. 

“It would seem your manners have not improved over the last 20 years, my Lady, Brienne.”

“Kingslayer,” she bit out in greeting.

He swallowed. “My name is Jaime, as you well know. Ser Jaime, if it please you.”

“You are too familiar.”

“But, I am familiar. What would you have me call you, my Lady, if not Brienne?”

She saw her unease at the term ‘lady’ and smiled at her before he exploited her weakness.

“Or would ‘Ser’ be more to your liking, I wonder? Did Lord Selwyn raise his you up to be his heir in place of Galladon?”

“Shut you mouth, Kingslayer.” She gritted through her teeth as she dragged him up off the ground. “Do not speak his name.”

“Ser Jaime,” he corrected automatically. “Don’t speak your name, don’t speak his name. It’s a wonder you let me speak at all, wench.” His reply was scathing, if not also a bit laboured. His body was weak. She swatted the mare’s hind quarters with the flat of her blade, once Jaime was on his feet, and it took off at a gallop. 

“It’s a long way to King’s Landing, we may as well get reacquainted.”

“Silence, Ser Jaime.” She said his title grudgingly, as though he didn’t deserve it, as though she would rather continue calling him Kingslayer. 

He narrowed his eyes at her and he felt his mouth turn down. For some reason it made him angry, and it hardly ever made him angry. He usually found it amusing how many people reviled him for, what he considered to be, his finest act. The sheer intensity of his anger startled him. “Tell me, since you left my ancestral home all those years ago, to return to your dreary little mountain in the sea, have you known many men? I mean, of course, besides me?” He made a show of looking her up and down. He wanted to hurt her. He sniffed. “I suppose not.”

She refused to reply and instead squatted down and eyed the river beside their patch of road. 

“Perhaps women? Horses?” He continued and he felt her stiffen beside him and stand abruptly.

“You will not provoke me, Jaime.” She said it through gritted teeth but he rejoiced in his small victory. 

In her anger she called him Jaime. Just Jaime, she said, as she had when she was young. 

“But I already have! Look at you; you look ready to chomp off my head!” He laughed and grinned at her. “And more able to do so then you’ve ever been before, but do you think you could?” He wheedled her. Her eyes were furious and her cheeks glowing red with anger and he remembered their evening in the yard again. The tear stains on his pillowcase. “Do you even remember the Rock? You and your brother, you were both so young-you are so young.”

She turned away from him and walked further down the bank of the river. 

“I’m six and twenty, ser.”

“You would be, yes. Yet there is still so much innocence in those pretty blue eyes of yours. Tell me true, Brienne, what are you doing here? In armor, no less? Why are you not on your precious sapphire isle, married and chasing around toe-headed brats?”

Her silence continued and Jaime sulked. His victory was short lived it seemed. She refused to reply to anything he said for the better part of twenty minutes as she led him along the bank. Though he didn’t mention her father or Galladon again he did as her about Lady Catelyn Stark and how she ended up in service of _King_ Robb but she refused to speak.

“This is going to be a long journey,” he said at last, “made longer by your sullen silence.”

“I’m not sullen. I just don’t want to talk to you.” She had located a small skiff and began to move it into the river while he watched.

“Why do you hate me so much? Have I ever harmed you? Did I ever, once, turn you away?” 

“You’ve harmed others. Those you were sworn to protect. Your crimes are past forgiveness, Kingslayer.”

There was that name again. For some reason, hearing her say it to his face those few times stung more than hearing the whole of King’s Landing whisper it behind his back for the last fifteen years. 

He closed his mouth and let her lead him to the edge of the river. 

“In,” she said and he obediently got into the small boat. She followed and pushed off the bank with her oar. He kept quiet the rest of the morning but by mid-afternoon he realized he was the one sulking. 

It was blatantly unfair.

Who had held her when she found out her brother had died? Who had welcomed her into his bed and his arms when the nightmares made it impossible for her to sleep? Who had fought not to have her taken back to Tarth? 

It had been him. It had always been him.

He sat up, a bit reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the blue sky, to look at her. He’d been rather enjoying the sun and clouds, even if his mind was thinking on darker thoughts, and was met with a rather less pleasant view.

“You’re a virgin I take it?”

“Silence.”

“Yes, I thought as much. Your childhood must have been awful for you, after leaving Casterly Rock of course. Were you a foot taller then all the boys? They laughed at you, called you names.” He smirked as her neck colored. “Some boys like a challenge, one or two must have tried to get inside _Big Brienne_.”

“One or two tried.” He voice was flat and he wanted it to burn. 

“Ahh, but you fought them off?” She continued to row, the boat remained steady as he went on. “Maybe you wished one of them could over power you, fling you down, tear off your clothes-but none of them were strong enough.” He waited a beat, watching more blood rush to warm her skin. “I’m strong enough.” 

“Not interested,” she said sternly, her eyes remained locked on a point behind his head. 

He scowled. 

She did as well. 

“Of course you are. You’d love to know what it feels like to be a woman.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “I still remember, you know. I was older, one and ten I think, when your father dragged you out of my arms.”

Her eyes flickered to his. It was only the barest half-a-second, but he saw it. 

“I remember,” she replied quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions and comments are more than welcome, they are greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long boat ride and the first of many hurdles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I edited the first chapter (not the prologue) for problems I had with it. Mostly pacing and a few typos. I find it difficult to stick too closely to the books because it feels disjointed. I am still without beta and will, unless someone offers, probably continue to be so if you notice something glaring let me know! Thank you for reading and thank you to everyone who has comments, given me kudos or bookmarked this fic!

Jaime groaned in exquisite pleasure. He’d never felt so good. 

The water sluiced onto his body clear and cool, and ran off him in dirty rivulets. After spending the better part of a year in a small, dirty cell, less than five feet away from a bucket of his own shit, the water of whatever small tributary they were in felt like the finest silk against his battered skin.

Brienne was a respectful distance away, her head turned, as though she hadn’t bathed with him as a girl in the Sunset Sea. She sat on a stone facing the shore, with the end of the cord that wrapped around his neck in her hands. She felt every move he made as he bathed, he was sure, and she heard every sound that escaped his dry throat. He knew because if he so much as sighed he could watch her neck redden above her collar. 

He could easily kill her, the thought came unbidden to his mind. He could haul one of the slick, loose rocks from the bottom of the river he bathed in and bring it down on her blond head. Her hair, light as it was, would redden easily as blood filled it. Though it might only knock her out, hard headed as she was, and he could still walk away. 

Jaime shook his head. No use thinking on it, he wouldn’t do it. 

She might have been his captor. She might also have been ignoring him much of the morning. She might even no longer care a whit for him, but he wouldn’t hurt her. It didn’t matter why not. 

He still wanted out of his fetters though, and he wanted a sword back in his hand. He felt naked without a blade. That would have to be remedied at some point, he thought. Sooner rather than later.

“Brienne.” He called. She didn’t answer. In the earliest hours of that morning, as the sun just entered the sky and they’d found their tiny, floating transport, she’d admitted to remembering him. If he had to guess he would say she did so fondly, if her tone was any indication. Since then, however, she had hardly spoken two words at a time to him. ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ responses and a blushing suggestion to bathe had been the most he’d received. 

That had to change as well. He’d spent too much time alone the past year and he had grown mighty tired of talking to himself.

“Brienne,” he said again more impatiently and tugging on the rope that ran from his neck to her palm. “ _Wench!_ ” 

“Do you need something?” Her voice was tight, as if her teeth were scraping together, and he smiled. He rather enjoyed having someone’s attention again, even if it was negative.

“Lend me your knife.” She straightened up before she answered.

“Why would I give you my knife?” Her tone was incredulous and a bit higher than he’d heard thus far.

“To shave with, my Lady. Did you think I would ask to borrow your dirk only to stab you in the back with it? I wouldn’t, in case you still question it.”

She slumped slightly under the weight of his accusation, at least, that is what he imagined.

“I would not have you armed,” she replied firmly.

“How is it a big, strapping wench like yourself is afraid of the Kingslayer? Chained, no less. You don’t even face me. It is a mistake, I can assure you, I wouldn’t make were you my prisoner.”

“My name is not wench and you are not chained,” she replied quickly from her place on the rock. Still facing away from him, he noticed.

“No, it is Brienne of Tarth, you are right about that. This though,” and he tugged on the umbilical between them, “is close enough to chains for me to see no difference. If you shall truly not have me armed then it seems I must ask you to shave me. Leave the beard, but shear the hair.”

“You’d be shaved bald?” She swiveled on her perch and immediately flushed under his naked scrutiny. He knew he was thin, and his once corded muscles were weaker than they’d been since he was a lad, but he was still a lion of the Rock. He would not back down from her appraisal. 

“The realm knows Jaime Lannister as a beardless knight with long, golden hair. I’d rather not be recognized while a prisoner, if it’s all the same to you.” 

She eyed his hair with a sort of appraising look. He pushed some strands off his forehead and was pleased to note they had returned to their previous golden hue. He’d been so covered in dirt and filth during his captivity that his hair had been as dark as Robert Baratheon’s. 

Cersei would have hated that. 

“Well, what do you say? For old times sake?” He smiled his most winning grin and she rolled her eyes at him. There was even the hint of a smile on her wide mouth before she bit her lip. It was a nervous habit she had whenever she was trying not to laugh. He didn’t even remember it until he saw her teeth sneak over the pink flesh. She used to do it whenever he or Galladon made faces at her from behind their Maester’s back or said something scathing about Casterly Rock’s Master-at-Arms. A dour man called Ser Andrew. 

“Put on some clothes,” she said before turning away from him. 

Jaime walked back to the shore and dressed quickly. He’d already washed his clothes, if those rags could indeed be called such, and left them to dry as he bathed. When he put them on he felt a pang of sickness, the rags were as warm and soft as Cersei’s smooth skin. Then he sat on Brienne’s sun-bleached perch as she hacked dutifully at his hair. Her blade was sharp and she hacked at his locks with a sure hand though he did detect a bit of a shake early on. Her fingers rested hot against his neck as she evened out the hair there. Jaime shivered beneath her warmth. He’d been without proper contact for too long.

Once she was finished he put his hand up to his head. There was at least 6 or so inches of hair remaining. He raised his eyebrow in question.

“I,” she started but hesitated a second before continuing, “I don’t think short hair would suit you.” 

Jaime nodded and smiled. “You’re the one with the knife.” Then he tiled his head back and exposed his chin and neck to her. “Carry on.” She then began to trim back his, considerably longer than it had ever been, beard. Jaime, for his part, tried to sit as still as possible and reveled in the feel of her fingers guiding his face into position.

When she was finished she stepped away and appraised her work, seeming satisfied. Jaime turned to look down into the water and the reflection that blinked back at him was a man he hardly knew. Thinner, and with hollows under his eyes and lines he didn’t remember. He’d been too long in Robb Stark’s dungeon. I don’t look as much like Cersei this way, he thought, _she’ll hate that_. 

There was nothing to be done for it, however, as there was no turning back the time and beating Robb Stark in the Whispering Wood. Instead he brushed the hair out of his eyes and sauntered over to his captor. He let Brienne tie his wrists back up with rope but only after making her endure a quite lengthy urination by him on a large oak. 

He could have asked her to leave him, though he doubted she would, so he didn’t say anything at all. He just picked a tree and removed his breeches, because he knew she would turn away in embarrassment and flush Lannister crimson. And turn away she then did; although she did turn back, to his mild surprise. Apparently she’d left her charge to his own devices for long enough that day. 

When they returned to their little skiff he offered to have a turn at the oars but she refused him. “Your arms must be sore, my Lady.” Still she did not let up. She had stamina, he had to admit that. 

Not long after, they saw a floating log that turned out not to be a log at all. It was a corpse. The War of the Five Kings had taken a great toll on the land. The forks of the Trident were the best way to move goods and men through the riverlands but they passed no other boats. They rowed by villages but saw no villagers. The small fork they rode was clogged in places by abandoned nets and drift wood from broken vessels. 

Jaime felt unbearably uneasy. 

Still, Brienne always found the channel through and did not linger long in any place Jaime felt unsafe. When he complimented her on her skill at the oars she eyed him suspiciously.

“I grew up on Tarth, I learned to row before I could walk. I,” she started but then blushed and corrected herself, “we used to go out in a skiff at Lannisport, do you not remember?”

He did. “Galladon was always better on water than I ever was. I don’t remember you having any particular skills but then you just sat with me, didn’t you? We let him do all the work with Ser Amos.” She did not respond.

As she continued to row he let him mind drift to Lannisport. He hadn’t been there in ages. The city was large enough to merit its own wall and when he was young some of his father’s guards would take them there and teach them how to handle a boat in the harbor amongst House Lannister’s fleet. 

Things had been much simpler then. You had friends you could trust, you fought in a yard instead of on a field of battle, you ate when you were hungry and drank when you were thirsty, and no one ever expected anything from you. Or rather, they didn’t expect anything from him. 

 

The Kingswood Brotherhood changed all that. He’d been knighted after that battle. He’d been so happy to take his first vows. His father too, had been proud. It was a rare occurrence for Tywin Lannister, almost as rare as his smile. 

Jaime had been fifteen. 

Once they were both sufficiently cleaned and watered, Brienne gave Jaime a small bit of jerky and they clambered back into the small skiff. Jaime noticed Brienne had relaxed somewhat in his company and he was gratified. The sooner she stopped looking on him with suspicion the sooner he could convince her to remove his fetters and arm him. He realized very early into their little journey that he would have to go slowly. She did not react well to his japes quite yet nor did she accept compliments readily. She did, however, answer questions truthfully and could be coaxed into reminiscing with him about various parts of their shared childhood. 

He tried to keep away from the subject of her brother, to be safe. Though it was difficult as they spent much of their happy times with Galladon and they spent a great deal of their alone time together as a result of his death. 

Still, he managed to coerce her into a lively debate about a particular day in which they spent much of their time hiding from Cersei and Jaime’s Lord father. Jaime was meant to be in the Maester’s chambers studying his letters and Brienne was supposed to start working on her abominable cross-stitching with his sister but instead they’d run off together and spent the entire day hiding in the Lion’s Mouth and the Stone Garden, they even played a pathetic two-person ‘come into my castle’ in the Hall of Heroes. His father had been furious at them both. Jaime was trying, and failing, to convince her that they had agreed to abandon their duties mutually. Brienne remembered it quite differently, and told him so. 

It had been only weeks before her father had come for her. 

“No, I’m quite sure that you wanted to avoid Septa Crane as much as I wanted to avoid Maester Tawney.”

Brienne’s eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “I would nev-” Her words fell away unfinished as she gazed over his shoulder.”

“What is it?” He questioned as he turned his body to look behind him. Though she needn’t answer, it was quickly clear what had silenced her. 

“Smoke,” she answered. 

A thin, grey finger crooked them on. It was rising from the south bank, twisting and curling in the wind, not too far along. Below, Jaime made out the smoldering remains of a black tower and beside it a live oak, full of dead women. 

The crows had scarcely started their feast, the women were still fleshy and the wind twisted them in a macabre dance as they hanged. 

“This was not chivalrously done.” Brienne’s voice broke the spell that the dead women cast on him. “No true knight would condone such wanton butchery.”

He turned away from the oak and looked back at her. Her hair was hewn short, shorter than she’d cut his. It was always long when they were children, not braided and elaborate like Cersei’s but knotted as they did in the Storm Land’s. Her shoulders had grown broad as he had known they would. He was reminded again, as he had been when she first entered his cell, of how tall she was. She was so tall that her legs folded up somewhat comically, like his, in the skiff. He wondered what they would look like, twisting in the air, if she too were suspended from the oak. 

His mouth dried up and his stomach clenched painfully. 

_No, it would not happen_. 

Though, what should he care if did? He thought, briefly, that he hardly knew this woman who sat across from him. Two years, they’d had two years as children and that had been a single day of sunlight in a life of darkness. 

But no, that wasn’t true either. He smiled to himself. He had become maudlin in his confinement, apparently. His life had not been dark; he’d lived a golden life and only the last 15 years, since Aerys, had he truly known the dark. Jaime hardened his eyes and took in the girl again, her plate and her armor and her obvious dreams of knightly honor. 

“True knights see worse every time they ride to war,” said Jaime. “And _do_ worse, yes.”

She took her eyes from the oak growing ever closer and met his gaze. His words had stung her; he could see it plain in her features. She was reminded that he was not the boy she knew, just as he had been reminded that she was no longer a little girl but a woman grown. A woman he hardly recognized. 

“I’ll leave no innocents as food for crows.” Her voice was firm as she began to guide their little boat to the south bank and that damned tree. 

“You’re a selfish wench, crows need to eat too. We’re in the middle of a war and yet you would deprive these crows of their meal? Stay to the river and leave the dead alone, Brienne.”

“Those slain in battle may feed them,” was her only reply. 

They landed upstream, where the great oak leaned out over the water. The bodies swung, if possible, more grotesquely than he had figured from the river. About their neck hung a sign, _They Lay With Lions_ , it read. 

“Oh yes, this was most unchivalrously done…but by your side, not mine.”

“I fought for King Renly, not the Northmen. I serve Lady Catelyn, not Robb Stark.” His eyes widened at her sudden admitting. “She would not condone this and neither do I. We must cut them down.”

Well, that answered one of his questions. She was a deserter from Renly’s army. Renly, who had no claim on the throne but a pretty smile, had been her King. If that was all it took to sit the Iron Throne then Jaime would have been made King a long time ago. 

“They’re tavern girls,” Jaime started. “They earned this death by serving my fathers men. Ale and kisses dug their graves, but my lady, they are gone and we should be too. Whoever’s work this is will be watching the Kingsroad and the Trident. We could be seen.”

He saw a moment of hesitation in her eyes. “You are under my protection, they would need to kill me.” She did look threatening, he had to admit. Though he did not say so.

“I shouldn’t think that would greatly trouble them.”

“I’m cutting them down,” she said obstinately. 

“Fine, cut them down. See what thanks you get.” He was irrationally angry, he knew that, but did she have to be so irritatingly _noble_?

She climbed the base of the tree easily. The branches were thick enough to hold her, even armored. She ascended the tree rather well, he thought, for someone hampered by plate and not one but two swords. She even left her shield on her back. When she pulled out her dagger, the same one she’d used to trim his hair and beard, and cut them down the stench of dried blood and rot filled the air. 

Jaime gagged. He looked up to see how she admired her handy work but her head was turned to the river.

“Back to the boat,” she shouted. “Now!”

“What, what do you see?!” He looked to the river but couldn’t see anything to alarm him. That was, until the sail came into view…they were the red and blue of Tully sails. The ship was in the distance but not so far off that their tiny skiff could outrun them. He knew that for a fact.

Brienne was scrambling down the tree behind him as quickly as she could without injuring herself. He heard when she stopped behind him. They were both at the boat but neither got in. The ship, along with its ill-coloured sails, had disappeared behind a bend but soon enough it would loop back around and they would again be in plain view. 

“We cannot outrun that river galley, you must know that. Nine oars on each side, that means eighteen men, and sails much bigger than ours.”

“I do.” Her eyebrows furrowed as she starred between the bend that the ship would come around and their meager transport. Then she began to drag their boat further out of the water and tried to hide in beneath the russet and yellowed foliage of the bank. “Watch the water, tell me when they come.”

He didn’t respond, only swung his head to the horizon and waited. Too soon he saw the sails. 

“They’re here.” He turned back to her and he could tell that the boat was too visible.

She frantically turned to look behind her and see for herself. They would be there within 15 minutes. No time to run, no time to hide. “Stay with the skiff.”

“Are you so eager to be rid of me?!” He decided, very quickly, he would not be going back into a cell. “I won’t be taken alive. Give me your sword.”

“You won’t be taken at all. Stay with the boat and distract them.”

“Brienne.”

“Jaime,” she said. Her eyes implored him, big and blue and full of something he couldn’t name…some mixture of determination and innocence that was uniquely Brienne. “Please, trust me.”

He nodded. He was bitter that she did not free him, bitter that he had to face those foes with no sword, but he did face them. 

Brienne was off and gone before he could see were she was going, though he had hardly a moment of thought to spare for her departure. Instead he studied the galley. Likely more men than just the eighteen at the oars, more likely there were twenty or twenty-five on the ship. More men than he and Brienne could take out even if she did free him and arm him. The most they could hope for would have been to die with swords in hand. 

At the prow of the onrushing galley stood a man with a bald head, brawny arms and grey, bushy eyebrows. He had on a white surcoat embroidered with a weeping willow but his cloak was fastened with a glint of silver. It would be the silver trout of Riverrun which meant that he was Hoster Tully’s Captain of Guards, Robin Ryger.

“Come to wish me godspeed, Ser Robin?” Jaime cupped his hands around his mouth to bellow to the boat. No use hiding. The deck was crowded with men, four of them archers, Jaime noted. He hated archers.

“Come to take you back, Kingslayer!” Ser Robin replied. 

The galley began to turn in towards the shore and slid over the water beside the high cliffs that ran along the river. 

“Cast your sword into the water and no one need be harmed!” Ser Robin called to him and Jaime had to smirk. Robin Ryger was of an age with Catelyn Stark’s father, Lord Hoster Tully. He was way past his peak and couldn’t see Jaime as well as Jaime could see him. He thought the Kingslayer would have a sword, naturally.

“I have no sword,” he answered, “but if I did, I’d stick it through your belly and then I’d use it to hack off the balls of those four cravens on your deck!” A flight of arrows answered him but thankfully they all struck wide. How long, he wondered, until they noticed Brienne wasn’t with him? Or, perhaps they thought he’d killed her? 

He noticed her though, from his spot on the bank. The galley was scarcely 20 yards away and directly beneath a green-brown bluff. Jaime watched fascinated as Brienne worked. The man at the galley’s prow, and his men, were too focused on Jaime to notice his gaze glued above them. They looked though, when pebbles rained on them from up above. 

Just in time to see a boulder the size of an aurochs detach itself from the bluff, it tumbled through the air and cracked in two against the cliff side before crashing down on their heads. Jaime laughed as the archers struggled in the water. From the oarsmen’s screams he surmised that neither could they. Jaime laughed harder.

When he saw Brienne walking towards him from the cliff he began uncovering the boat. They would have to be off soon, chances of all the men drowning were low. He did not want to linger. He picked up the oar and turned to her. _One good swing_ , he thought, _and I can be rid of her_. She was still his captor, regardless of their history, and she had left him tied in ropes as a common threat had descended on them.

When she finally reached him, he found himself handing her the oar with a sniff. “You’re a bloody stupid woman, you know that? I could have struck you with this and used your blade to cut my ties. I could have sailed on without you.”

She smiled at him, the first genuine smile he’d seen on her face in over 20 years.

“But you didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I enjoy giving Brienne the last word. Comments and questions are welcome and appreciated!


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An inn and a night on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finally, FINALLY, moving far enough away from the source material for this to stop being so dull. Lol. Hope you like it.
> 
> (Also, OMG LAST NIGHT OgGUUGAHJDGUGDASBHJ. I can't even...I just had to get that out.)

Jaime was the first to see the inn, Brienne had been too busy stalwartly ignoring his pleas for her to untie him. “Brienne, please, I won’t run. You have my word.”

Since they’re run in with Hoster Tully’s men the day before, Jaime had been trying to coax her into releasing him. She’d been denying him since that morning with hardly a break. He wasn’t sure what he would do once he had his freedom but he figured he would cross that bridge when he came to it. If he so desired he would remain in her company all the way to King’s Landing, and his sweet sister. If he chose to part ways with her, he supposed he would have to beat her in combat. Something he was absolutely sure he could do, whether or not he wanted to was the real question. He was leaning towards not.

“I won’t, I promised Lady Catelyn that you would remain bound.”

Jaime blinked. “Why would you have to promise her that? Wasn’t your solemn vow to return me to King’s Landing enough for that dreadful woman? Did she think you to be a particularly lenient gaoler? Clearly, she was wrong.”

Brienne huffed and trudged forward, tugging at the rope that bound his wrists. Her shoulders hunched slightly and he idly wondered when that happened. When had she grown so tall that she started to roll her shoulders forward to appear, marginally, more compact? Jaime shook his head. _She should never have left Casterly Rock_ , he thought, _we lions would have taught her to stand tall_. 

“It is unimportant,” she replied softly.

“Maybe to you, I’m the one being dragged behind a woman like some indolent toddler.”

Jaime jogged slightly to catch up to her long strides, even though she stood no more than and inch taller than he. Her height was really an advantage on journeys such as that one, as much as it was a disadvantage, he was sure, in other situations.

“Truly, why would Lady Catelyn exact such a specific promise, unless,” it dawned on him rather abruptly and Jaime felt a grin stretch across his face. “Did you ask if I had to remain trussed up like a Dornish game hen?”

She didn’t answer, merely continued to trudge onward.

“You did, didn’t you?” He jogged a step or two again until he was striding right behind her. “Well, there’s only one thing for it,” he said. “Untie me. You’ll feel better and so will I.” Brienne stopped and Jaime almost collided with her armoured back.

She turned to face him, her eyebrows furrowed in consternation. 

“I promised Lady Catelyn, and I won’t break that promise. I’m sorry, Jaime.” 

He could tell she really was and he almost admitted defeat. Almost. Over her shoulder, not 30 yards away, he saw a stable. She’d been in front of him but looking down at her large feet in an effort to ignore his treatises, which meant she hadn’t yet seen it. That meant there was possibly a house or an inn nearby. 

“There is an inn not too far off,” he said, pointing to the stables. “No doubt they will find us a strange, and memorable, sight. What do you suppose they’ll think of a lady knight with a bound prisoner in tow?” 

Brienne stepped back from him and looked over her shoulder, in the direction he indicated. She didn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you what they’ll think. Nothing, not until someone comes looking for us. Then, for a gold dragon, they’ll think we took whichever road, on foot or a horse, in whatever direction we do go. They’ll sell us.”

“Then we will not go to the inn,” she answered, although he did detect a note of longing in her voice.

“Come wench, a featherbed would do you as much good as it would do me and it would do me a great deal of good. It would be safer as well, then sleeping out in the open another night.”

“But you're right, there may be people,” Brienne said, “hiding or dead. We can't risk it.”

“Are you afraid of a few corpses? That aside, no smoke from the chimneys,” he pointed out. “Nor lights in the windows.”

“What are you suggesting? That I untie you? Might I also give you a head start?” 

Jaime held in the smile that threatened to give away his plan. Once he was out of the ropes he would just refuse to let her tie him again. He decided then, that if he could get her to remove his ties he would stay with her despite what she seemed to think. He wanted to go to King’s Landing anyway, although he may force her to take a detour to see his father’s host. The road would be much easier if they had proper horses, a decent meal in their bellies, and more provisions. He would very much like to be armed and armoured as well, if he could manage it. 

“I’m suggesting a man and his wife, heading to the capitol after their farm was razed to the ground, is a more common and less memorable than Brienne of Tarth traveling the escaped Kingslayer to King’s Landing.” 

She stared at him, wide-eyed, with her mouth hung open. She looked a bit like a cow when she did that. 

“Don’t give me that look, would it be so horrible pretending to be my wife? If we’re lucky, no one will be there and it won’t matter what tale we come up with. It’s worth a try, but you have to remove my restraints first or no one will believe us.”

He began walking purposefully toward his goal to give her time to think it over, not much time however. A horse was whinnying in the stable but it looked to Jaime like the stable had been home to more horses than the two it held, and recently. Not a great sign. Jaime had been sincerely hoping the inn would be abandoned, regardless of what he told Brienne. Once he peeked inside and confirmed there was only the two horses he turned back to Brienne and put on his most winning grin. 

“Ready?” He held out his hands. 

“I’m not sure.” She shifted from one foot to the other and Jaime scowled.

“Why don’t you trust me? I’ve never once lied to you.” He shook a few stray hairs from his eyes and sighed. Without waiting for an answer he spun away from her and headed straight for the inn. Brienne had dropped the rope between them only moments before and scrambled to grab it out of the leaves and muck on the ground but Jaime was moving quickly through the trees. “Let’s see who’s home, shall we?” He hollered back at her.

Jaime muttered to himself bitterly as he stomped away from the stubborn girl. _Big, dumb, pigheaded wench_. 

The wood and stone of the inn was blackened and singed but the sign that hung over the door, a man kneeling on a white background, was still intact and relatively clean. Jaime made it to the inn quickly and without preamble went up to the door and shoved his shoulder into it…to find himself eye-to-eye with a crossbow.

“Lion, fish or wolf?” asked the boy with the crossbow in his hands. 

“We were hoping for Capon, actually,” he replied before narrowing his eyes at the chunky boy in front of him. “The crossbow is a coward’s weapon.” 

“It’ll put a bolt through your heart all the same,” said the lad. Jaime sneered at him.

“And my companion,” he said, shooting a look over his shoulder, “will run you through before you can reload it.” 

Brienne was behind him, he could feel her presence like a weight around his neck. 

“Don’t scare the boy, Jaime.” Jaime’s scowl deepened. “We mean you no harm and we have coin enough to pay for food and drink.” She dug a silver coin out of her pouch and held it up.

The boy looked suspiciously at the coin and him before turning back to Brienne. “Why’s he tied up?”

“Killed some crossbowmen,” Jaime said. “You have ale?”

“Yes.” The boy lowered his crossbow an inch and spoke to Brienne again. “Put down your swordbelt and might be we’ll feed ya.” He was a heavy set boy and Jaime wondered at how well the lad was eating.

A doughy man came out of the cellar before long holding a butcher’s cleaver, dirty with blood. He was the new innkeep, or rather the man who had found the former innkeep dead and had taken the inn for his own. He calmed the boy enough to put down his crossbow and Brienne, in return, removed her swordbelt. Jaime saw that she still had at least one knife on her, thankfully. The new innkeep and the boy served stale oatcakes, hardbread and stringy horse meat with watery ale to wash it down. Still, it was a more decent meal then Jaime had in longer than he could remember. He ate with gusto. The innkeep and the boy, who it turned out was not his son but just a boy the man found on the road near the inn, didn’t ask anymore unpleasant questions about Brienne or her captive and kept silent while the two ate. 

Brienne ate like a woman. She might do everything else like a man, but her long fingers broke apart the oatcakes before she put them in her mouth all the same. Jaime marveled. He had been marveling at her for the past two days, at all the little things that denoted her high birth or reminded him of a younger Brienne. A Brienne more removed from the one who steadfastly held him captive. The glimmer of the sun in her hair, the demure way she bathed, the way she preferred cider to ale. They were all things that made her less of a gaoler and more of a friend. He was sure she was doing the opposite with him. One minute gentle and the next, hardened, as though she remembered why he was with her. 

The King. His Sister. The Stark boy.

After they had sated their appetites as best they could on stale breads and charred horse steaks, the innkeep offered the two beds for the right price. It was a low price, too low. Jaime yearned for a featherbed and the warmth of a body beside him, but was gratified when Brienne declined. The price for the beds, only a few silvers, set Jaime’s teeth on edge. This place was a good resting place but it wasn’t by any means safe and Jaime had a bad feeling about the stables. He had a notion there had been too many horses, too recently, for those folks not to have ‘friends’ in the area. 

What the innkeep lacked in trustworthiness, he made up for in news. Jaime couldn’t rely on everything the man said, but he said a great deal and Jaime had to suppose at least some of it true. Unfortunately much of the news the innkeep and boy had, did not sound promising. Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr roamed in the woods and Lord Bolton's men in Maidenpool and holding the Ruby Ford while their lord held the castle Harrenhal. 

The innkeep offered suggestions on the safest paths to King’s Landing and even sold them the two horses in the stables. Brienne paid three gold dragons for the lot-horses, food, provisions for their journey and information. Two gold dragon too many in Jaime’s estimation; the food was stale, the information possibly false and Jaime’s gelding was half-blind while Brienne’s dray was half-starved. The wench insisted. 

The man and the boy came outside to see them off after Brienne and he insisted on leaving for the last time.

“I have a full belly, and a moonlight ride will be just the thing.” Jaime nodded to the pair as he swung awkwardly up on his horse. “Take up the maul or the spear, boy, they’ll serve you better,” he finished. They boy just stared up at him distrustfully and hitched his crossbow in his hands. _So much for friendly advice_.

“That man robbed you blind,” said Jaime once they were on the road. She knew that though, he’d already told her as she’d paid. 

“We can’t ride golden dragons, and we can’t eat them when we’re hungry. They don’t warm beds. What would you have had me do?” She swung her head around, her face open and attentive. 

Jaime sighed. “That was worth one dragon, two dragons at most. Try not to be had by every innkeep we run across, will you?”

She grinned. “I’ll try.” 

Brienne rode ahead of him much of the way and he didn’t even have to tell her to take the path that the innkeep had suggested not to. Chances are there were outlaws in the woods, waiting to kill them and return their horses back to the stables they came from. She, of course, knew that.

He was struck again with the realization. _She’s changed so much_. 

He’d been working so hard to see her as she had been that every move she made, that was contrary to the little girl he’d known, struck him as odd. He knew it shouldn’t, they’d both changed. Him for the worse, he imagined she would say. Though he thought perhaps he was showing her, little by little, the change was not quite as drastic as she assumed. Jaime shifted in his saddle as the gelding’s back rolled beneath him. It felt good to be mounted again, properly. 

Half the night had passed before Brienne saw fit to slow her horse. Jaime and she were both drooping in their saddles by the time they made camp. They settled in a small grove of oak and ash beside a sluggish little stream. Brienne would allow no fire and Jaime thought it wise and suggested none. They supped in companionable silence on salt fish and some of the oatcakes from the inn. It was a strangely peaceful interlude. The half moon was bright in a black felt sky and the stars were dotted around it. The forest around them was silent but for the distant howling of wolves. One of the horses whickered nervously. He leaned back against the cool rock behind him. _The war has not touched this place_ , Jaime observed. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Brienne said from her place not 4 feet in front of him. She’d shed much of her armour and she looked smaller, more fragile, without it. Not that she would ever be confused for a woman, like Cersei or the delicate maidens of court, but she did look more a woman then. She was a strong woman with long, lean muscles and pale, freckled skin. 

Jaime slide forward slightly and lay down on his side as gently as he could with his wrists bound. He studied Brienne a moment in moonlight, with her dirty hair and calloused fingertips. Brienne. 

His body shivered as he dragged his eyes over the plane of her linen clad stomach and down her long legs, made to look all the longer in breeches. Her let his gaze wonder up her torso to the smallest hint of her breasts beneath her soiled, russet tunic. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep but it eluded him. He imagined the feel of her strong thighs squeezing his hips as she bucked against him. He turned over abruptly and blinked his eyes open in the dark. His cock stirred and Jaime brought his bound hands to his waist and palmed his budding erection roughly in an attempt to stave off what he knew was coming. 

He’d been from Cersei too long. He knew that was cause. Too long without a woman, it’s not uncommon. Seven hells, _even Ned Stark had fathered a bastard_. So he thought of Ned Starks bastard, and of Ned Stark. He thought of Joffrey, His own bastard. And he called up images of Tommen and Myrcella. Children he had never once been a father to. He thought of Tyrion, his caustic little brother, too smart for his own good by half and so perfectly bitter. Just like Jaime. Just like Brienne. 

At first blush two people couldn’t be more dissimilar but there was a strange likeness in Brienne and Tyrion. It was obvious to Jaime, who had known both as smiling children, how truly similar they were beneath appearances. Jaime had watched as the disappointments and inadequacies of the world slung them self about his brother’s neck like a Maester’s chain, slowly dragging him down. He’d watched as Tyrion broke the links and reforged them, turned them into Armour. He knew how Tyrion protected himself with biting words as his sword and flippancy as his plate. Jaime didn’t have to watch it happen to Brienne to know that it had. She was uncomfortable in her own skin and she blushed at the merest insinuations of affection, of attention. Tyrion was, of course, nothing like a blushing maid or a kicked horse, but the root of the condition was the same. Tyrion demanded affection, paid for it even. He wore his pain like a badge, like a shield, so no one could make a sword of it to cut him. Brienne though, she held a real shield high and hid behind it. They ran her through with words like Tyrion so often did to his enemies, so she learned to run them through with steel in a way that Tyrion could never hope to.

Perhaps it was thoughts of Tyrion that made him turn back over and open his mouth. “Brienne, I’m sorry.”

She turned her head to him, startled, as though she had thought him truly asleep.

“For what?”

“Is it too easy to say ‘everything’?” She just looked blankly and waited for him to continue. He wondered if she was blushing but the dark was such that he couldn’t tell. “That we had to meet again as captive and captor. That I never visited after I was knighted. The king…” Jaime trailed off and Brienne tilted her head. In the darkness he could just make out the sheen of her jewel-toned eyes. 

“Why did you do it? Why did you take the oath?” He didn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t like the answer if he told it true. _For love. For Cersei._ He had wanted to be close to her. 

His father had summoned Cersei to court the same year Jaime had been sent to squire for Lord Sumner, hoping to make her a royal marriage. Tywin had refused every offer for her hand as she grew ever more lovely, waiting for Viserys to mature; or Elia to die in the childbed. Elia of Dorne was never the healthiest of women. Meanwhile Jaime had earned his spurs against the Kingswood brotherhood. On his way back to Casterly Rock, after his father’s first match for Jaime failed, Jaime made a brief call at King’s Landing-chiefly to see Cersei. Once there she took him aside and whispered in his ear that their father meant to marry him again, only this time to Lysa Tully. Jaime was furious. He had consented to the last match easily enough, but Lysa Tully was not an option. Cersei continued to whisper, she told him if he took the white he would be near her always. There had been a death in the Kingsguard at the time, Ser Harlan Grandison died in his sleep. 

He had argued, of course. “But,” he protested quietly, “Casterly Rock…”

“Is it the rock you want,” she said, “ _or me_?”

They spent that night in an old inn in Eel Alley. Cersei had come to him dressed as a simple serving wench, which had excited him all the more. He remembered that night well, Cersei was insatiable, every time he fell asleep she would wake him, and by the next morning Casterly Rock seemed a small price to pay to be near her always. 

He couldn’t tell Brienne, the look on her face, the disgust, he wouldn’t be able to bear it. 

“I was young, fifteen. It was a great honor.” His voice died in the cold night and his lie hung over them like the twisted branches of the trees that surrounded them. 

The investiture had freed him of Lysa Tully; elsewise, nothing went as planned. His father had been so furious at losing his heir that he renounced his station as Hand of the King and took Cersei with him back to Casterly Rock. 

“That is no answer,” she said scornfully.

“You are not old enough to remember Aerys Targaryen.”

She would not hear it. “He was mad and cruel, no one had ever denied that. He was still king, crowned and anointed. And you had sworn to protect him.” Her hair was almost glowing in the moonlight as she spoke. Almost golden. 

“I know what I swore.” He could here the strain in his voice and valiantly tried to hold it back.

“And what you did.”

“Yes, and what I did, and what _you did_.” Jaime watched his companion as her jaw set.

“I never,” she started,” I never killed-”

“Renly? Of course you didn’t, you’re too noble to have done that.” He smirked and shook his head. “No, I don’t think you killed Renly.”

“I never-”

“No?” He cut her off. “You didn’t have to. You killed Aerys just as sure as I did and without any of the work. How can you not see it? Did you never think of it?” Her face flushed with anger and her wide mouth opened to form an ‘o’ of incredulity. Jaime felt vindicated even though he knew it was petty.

“I never once, not once, so much as spoke a single word to King Aerys.” 

Jaime’s harsh laugh cut through the night, jagged and sharp. His throat was somewhat raw and it made his chortles raspy. He drank a large gulp of water from the canteen beside him and shifted his ankles in his binds before continuing. When he did, his voice was quieter.

“You didn’t have to, I told you already. You needn’t do anything. You didn’t have to speak at all.”

“Explain yourself.” Brienne was still sitting but he could see from the twitch of her muscles that she was fighting the urge to stand up and lumber over to him. He could taste her fury on his tongue.

“Are you labouring under the presumption that I owe you something? I don’t owe you anything, least of all an explanation,” he said and Brienne nearly got to her knees but he held up a hand. “But you’ll have one if you think you can hear it.”

She watched her as she relaxed, still staring at him. Her hand hovered over her hilt and he eyed it.

“I’ll tell you, my lady, but you must tell me first, are you on your moon blood. If so I must ask you to give me your sword, a woman should never be armed when she’s on her moon blood.” He was biding his time and he wasn’t sure why, but suddenly he was nervous. 

Brienne growled.

“Out with it, Kingslayer.”

“From one Kingslayer to another, petty names are not in good taste.”

“I am no Kingslayer. I protected Renly, I tried…I’m not to blame for the death of King Aerys.” Her full bottom lip was caught in her teeth as she met his gaze, quite suddenly, he wanted kiss her. He’d thought over, so many times, how things could have been different. He’d gone over hundreds of scenarios in his mind as he stood guard outside of Robert’s doors while he fucked whores. He’d imagined hundreds of different futures while he rotted in Robb Stark’s dungeons. Every scenario, it seemed, began at one single point; one seemingly innocuous piece of parchment.

“Aren’t you? If it weren’t for you I would never have joined the Kingsguard.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. If you had accepted me then I would have gone to Tarth after I was knighted. I would never have gone to King’s Landing. Never seen Cersei.”

“Cersei? I don’t understand. Why would you come to Tarth?”

“To see my betrothed.” His words were softer than he had wanted, more pained. Her big, blue eyes went wide in surprise and suddenly everything clicked into place. 

She didn’t know. 

Her father never told her. It hadn’t been her choice. She hadn’t rejected him. Her father had.

“But, who-” She began. 

“You,” he said quickly, feeling an unfamiliar heat rise into his own cheeks. “I would have come for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions and comments are, as always, more than welcome. 
> 
> Please, as I move away from canon, if you notice anything feeling too ooc let me know. Also, I am notoriously bad with tense. I often notice erratic tense shifts in my own work but not until my head is somewhere else. If you see anything, please let me know. x


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations in the Riverlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me first thank my wonderful beta, Valyrian Steel, for all of the insightful notes and for fixing all of my ridiculous mistakes. That being said, all mistakes are mine. Thank you for reading Valonqar.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Brienne was silent in the dark. Even the horses had quieted down.

“Gods, say something,” he begged her from his place on the grass, lying on his side, with his wrists still bound like a hen. He kicked his cramping legs out, which were affixed together at the ankles, partly to try to relieve the cramping and partly to startle her. Brienne was staring at him with a puzzled expression on her face, as though she were trying to work him out. He thought she almost looked hurt, remorseful. Although he couldn’t see how she could. What maid would be sad for the loss of a Kingslayer and sisterfucker for her husband? 

The longer he waited for her response, the more his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He began to see the blood and mud splattered on her undershirt and the dirt smudged across her broad cheekbones. Her lips were plump and raw from her worrying them, as she was want to do. He noticed the habit very early in their trip. If she’d stayed at the Rock, Lord Tywin would have rubbed her lips with lemon juice everyday to break her of the habit.

When she finally did open her mouth, her voice was quiet and unsure. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, that much is obvious. Please,” Jaime scowled at the tone of his voice, it verged on nasty but he couldn’t quite help himself. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

He almost apologized but before he could, her voice, impossibly small and girlish and nothing at all like her, drifted over to him in a rush of words that he had to scramble an inch or so forward to hear. 

“I saw you,” she said. “With my father. I saw you at the tourney at Cider Hall. I saw you win the melee. It was your first, I think.” She lifted her head from where it had been tucked into her chest, her eyes finally coming up to meet his. “I begged him…I begged him to go see you, to at least let me go if he would not. He told me you- he told me,” she choked. 

He heard a tight, guttural, sigh as her throat closed over her words. Jaime waited, he would not interrupt her. He’d already waited too long for an answer he hadn’t even known he wanted. He hadn’t even known mattered until that night, until he’d spoken to her so bitterly- so unfairly. 

“My father told me you didn’t have time for little girls, that you wouldn’t see me. I cried for days.” Now she sounded angry and he couldn’t tell if it was at him for an imaginary slight or at her father for lying to her. He hoped her furious glare was directed at her father because, if she was any angrier with him, especially after he roped her in with him and Aerys, she would never untie him. When she spoke again her words were soft, more controlled. “It was a moon’s turn before I could as much as look at another knight.” 

He remembered that tourney well. It was the first melee he ever won. He’d been ten-and-three, a perfect specimen of prowess and youth, and beaming with pride. Nothing could have ruined that day and she would have been a most pleasant surprise. His long lost companion, come to congratulate him. He would have gathered her up in his arms and swung her around like a dainty little maid, though he was sure even then she wouldn’t have been. And she would have smiled at him, her big honey grin, covered in freckles and full of reckless abandon. She would have been a just a dirty, little girl but he would have watched over her and protected her like a knight guards a princess-even if she didn’t need protecting. Even though he was sure she would have been in breeches with her still-long hair tied up in a simple, messy braided knot. Instead, that night, he’d dreamt of Cersei. He had thought nothing could tarnish the memory of that day, but he felt it wither in his mind as he imagined what might have been. 

“I would never have turned you away.” It was a consolation too little, too late. She nodded and gave him a small half-smile. When she didn’t respond immediately he rolled his eyes and finished, “You’re welcome.” 

She let out a sharp laugh. He hoped that meant the end to the awkwardness. He’d not meant to share quite so much with his traveling companion. He contemplated turning over and facing away from her in an attempt to find sleep again but she continued their conversation after a brief pause.

“I would have,” she hesitated, “accepted your proposal. For what it’s worth, I mean.” She shrugged. “Not much I suppose. The Maid of Tarth, they call me. Not likely to make anyone a good match, but you couldn’t have known.” She looked at anything but him, finally letting her gaze rest on her boots. 

“Known what? That you would grow up into a broad, strapping wench who is more comfortable in armour than silk? I could have guessed, though it matters little. Well, it matters little to me.” 

She dug her long fingers into the thick grass she was sitting on and tore it rather violently from the ground. “You are kind, but there is no need. I know what I am.”

He eyed her from his place on the ground, taking in her long legs and wide hips. She chanced a glance at him but quickly turned away when their eyes met, her cheeks reddening. Her tendency to blush was really the only ladylike thing about her. She was not soft, she was not Cersei, but she was familiar and comfortable. She would undoubtedly be a good mother to a brood of unruly little golden-haired children. And perhaps most importantly, she was unlikely to let him run off to war without her. 

“There is no shame in being a maid,” he said honestly. Though he suspected she was truly speaking about her broad shoulders, the thick cords of muscle that ran along her legs, and her overall largesse. Jaime had a suspicion that all the gold in Casterly Rock may not have convinced the tender, little lords of Westeros to overlook Brienne’s considerable size, regardless of what their fathers told them. And Tarth had nowhere near that much gold. Still, he found himself speaking. “Speak truthfully girl, did your father turn away all your suitors?” 

She laughed, low and hollow.

“No, he didn’t, just you it seems. Not that there were many…He tried to marry me off three times before he gave up.” She looked crestfallen as she spoke of her betrothals but Jaime hardly noticed for the fire that burned in his belly. He couldn’t decide what the feeling was. That was no matter however, for it burned all the same and made him want to hurt something. It made his fingers clench in their desire to rip and tear and claw, anything to make the gnawing animal in his belly abate. He had felt this way before of course, when Robert took Cersei on their wedding night, when Aerys sent him to King’s Landing at the beginning of Lord Whent’s tourney. 

“And you, of course, were willing?” He questioned her, despite the fact that he immediately regretted his words. They stung her. He could see it plain, when her expression crumpled before his eyes. Tyrion’s words came back to him then, “it’s not what you say, brother, but _how_ you say it.” 

“I wasn’t,” her reply was firm and acid, “not for all of them.” He watched as she gathered herself up, head held resolutely high and her face carefully blank. “The first was dissolved before I met him. I was home hardly a moon’s turn from Casterly Rock when I heard of it. Apparently word had reached the Lord that my father had dealt with, some lower Lord of the reach, of some distressing news. I know not what it was, but they immediately withdrew their offer.” Jaime smiled, perhaps they had heard of him. Tywin Lannister could be very persuasive; it was not wise of Lord Selwyn to look to other Lords when Brienne was, even casually, promised to Jaime. “Years later, near the end of that long winter, there was another boy, Ronnet Connington. He threw a rose at my feet and told me that was all I’d ever get from him.”

As she spoke Jaime regretted his words all the more. He should have been gentler with her, should not have asked. The feeling was strange, he’d felt guilt and regret very few times in his life but that night he seemed to regret every word that came out of his mouth, biting or honest or otherwise.

“The third, a Lord who’s name I can’t remember, he was old enough to be my father. I challenged him to single combat. If he could beat me with a sword, he could have me. I knocked him into the dust.” Her words were full of pride, albeit a subdued pride. He smiled at her again. 

He too had been promised three times and three times he had remained without a wife. The first he’d been almost too young to remember, his mother had promised him to Elia Martell. She had grown close to Lady Martell while in King’s Landing and both women had two children not yet betrothed. Elia would be wed to Jaime and Cersei would be wed to Oberyn. When Joanna Lannister died, so did her plans for her children and Tywin was ambitious. With her plans dissolved he quickly made new ones. He would have his daughter wed, instead, to Prince Rhaegar. This meant, however, that Elia could not remain promised to Jaime. If Tywin had been smarter he would have honored the betrothal. As it was, Elia ended up the wife of the Prince in place of Jaime’s sweet sister. Elia Martell of Dorne had been a weak woman, Jaime remembered well. They would not have been a happy couple, he thought, and she did love Rhaegar very much- more than he loved her. 

The second had been Brienne, of course. Lord Tywin decided at the time that Cersei’s marriage would bring the Lannister name the appropriate amount of honor. Jaime’s was really just a matter of politics. It was known that Hoster Tully’s oldest was already betrothed to the eldest Stark boy and the girl would likely go to the eldest Baratheon. That left Hoster Tully’s second girl Lysa or one of the girls from the lesser houses, one of which being the eldest daughter of his wife’s dear cousin Selwyn Tarth. The two men arranged the match not long after the night Lord Selwyn arrived with his children. Jaime hadn’t been told, of course, until he was much older. He father had written to Jaime at Crakehall, telling him that Brienne of Tarth and he would be wed as soon as she flowered. Jaime hadn’t minded in the least. If anything, he found himself rather pleased. He’d been away from Cersei for over two years by then and did not long for her so much as he once did. Then, not long after the tourney at Cider Hall, Jaime received another letter from his father, explaining the dissolution of the arrangement. Jaime might have known his father was furious by the uncharacteristic thickness of his pen strokes if he’d cared enough to notice but he didn’t. Instead, Tyrion sent him a raven illustrating Tywin’s rage detail by detail. Jaime cared very little for his father’s rage or his lack of betrothed. Sure, he’d have been happy to have Brienne for a wife. He’d never fancied a girl truly other than his sister, and he’d liked Brienne well enough to wed her, bed her, and put little Lannisters in her belly- but he was too young and cocksure to be truly disappointed. 

The third had been Lysa Tully. He strangled that engagement in its cradle the moment Cersei spread her legs for him at the Inn in Eel Alley and convinced him to forsake Casterly Rock for her cunt and a white cloak. 

“Good,” he said and he meant it. Brienne did not deserve to be hampered by a Lord who would subjugate her into wearing dresses and hanging up her sword, who would creep into her bed at night and grunt above her in the dark without a care for her misery. “What I said about Aerys was unworthy. I apologize, my Lady. My crimes are mine alone.”

She nodded, but it seemed she’d grown tired of talking and resolutely closed her mouth. 

“Brienne,” he said into the dark.

“You should get some sleep…Ser Jaime.”

He turned over and tucked his head into the furs that she’d laid out for him earlier. She was right, they both needed to rest. Tomorrow would be another day of trotting past more burnt homes and blackened fields, of avoiding sellswords and Stark men. They would need their wits about them. He closed his eyes and sighed. It would be yet another day he went without a sword in his hand. _Tomorrow_ , he thought, _I will convince her to remove these damn ropes_.

They left early the next morning with the sun shining brightly orange as it peeked over the horizon. It was just as unusually pleasant as the previous night had been with the first rays of light dappling their little glade and making the dew that lay over the grass sparkle. The watered the horses in the stream near their camp and Brienne picked a few wild apples to break their fast on. Jaime gave one to his gelding, who he’d christened Justice. When he told Brienne, while she sliced the apples beneath the bows of an enormous willow, she laughed. It was sudden and short and made Jaime smile. 

They had reached Maidenpool well before midday. The town was abandoned but Lord Mooton’s red salmon was still flying above the castle. It made Jaime uneasy and so, to stave of his discomfort, he began to sing. He’d taken to singing whenever he was uncomfortable. Cersei hated it; it was a remnant from wars she had not been allowed to fight in and that bothered her.

“Six maids there where in a spring-fed a pool,” he sang rather loudly. 

“Jaime!” Brienne’s frantic and yet hushed treatise quieted him. “What are you doing?”

“Singing. ‘Six Maids in a Pool.’ I’m sure you’ve heard of it. And shy little maids they were, too. Rather like you,” he smiled. “Though somewhat smaller, I’ll warrant. Why don’t you join me? As I recall you have a fine voice.”

“I don’t think that’s wise. Lord Mooton is sworn to Riverrun, we don’t want to draw him out of his castle.” She was blushing again and he vaguely wondered if that was all she would do during their trip, just blush and chastise him.

“Perhaps you’d like to have a bath, Brienne?” What was the use of having a maid with him if he couldn’t make her blush for the pleasure of it? It did bring him a certain amount of perverse joy, even if it was a bit unkind. “I could use one as well. In fact I’ll wash your back. I can be very gentle, I’m sure you remember.” She turned impossibly redder. He thought she resembled the banners that flew over Casterly Rock. He used to wash Cersei’s back when they were children, and later indeed he washed Brienne’s. It was in one of the many pools around Lannisport and the Rock. It had been completely innocent of course but you wouldn’t know that from the look Brienne was giving him then. When she’d first arrived at Casterly Rock she had gladly splashed around, trying to dunk him under the water while Galladon swam deep below them and pulled her and Jaime down by the ankles. After Galladon died, Brienne would sit in one of the pools alone and Jaime would sometimes sit with her and make sure she cleaned behind her ears and he’d gently rub the lye bar down her spine and over her shoulders. 

“If you’re not quiet, Ser Jaime, I’ll gag you.” She smiled but he did note a hint of threat in her voice.

“If you untie me I’ll play mute all the way to King’s Landing. Can you think of anything sweeter?”

She smirked and slid her eyes sideways to look at him. “I name you a liar, Jaime Lannister.”

“You’re a smart girl, Brienne of Tarth.”

“I am a woman,” she corrected him.

“Fine then, a wench.”

“A woman,” she corrected again.

“That’s what I said. A wench.” He laughed at her scowl. 

They continued in relatively companionable silence past Maidenpool, staying to one side or the other of the Duskendale Road. Her dray was strong but Jaime’s gelding needed to stop to rest and drink rather often, meaning they made rather bad time. He wasn’t bothered. This journey, he figured, would last more than a moon’s turn but he was on his way and he’d decided he would honor his word to Lady Catelyn and send her daughter home. He’d decided it that morning, in fact. Jaime didn’t want to risk Brienne’s ire so soon after they’d begun to reconnect and the idea of him doing something honorable when every person in the seven kingdoms expected otherwise amused him. He did try to get her to join in with him during a rendition of ‘The Rains of Castamere’ but she was resolved not to sing. It was a lucky thing she didn’t humour him; if she had he might not have heard the soft “thwack” that signaled the loosing of an arrow. 

“Get down!” Jaime screamed, pressing himself into the neck of his horse and pushing the steed forward. The sounds of more arrows followed him as he rode. Brienne was ahead of him, but only by a few yards. Her dray was faster and more sure-footed than Jaime’s mount. It troubled him to see an arrow sticking out of her calf but she didn’t seem to notice. His head darted around, trying to find their assailants and his eyes landed on a low, crumbling wall. “BEHIND THE WALL!” 

“What?!” Jaime ignored her shout as he rounded his horse on the wall and the archers cowering behind it. She had been circling her mount, sword out, hopefully she would see him charge and follow suit. He wasn’t sure how long it would take the cowards to realize they were being charged by a bound man dressed in rags. She would be much more intimidating. 

The archers scattered when he reached the wall, Brienne close behind. When she reined up beside him the archers had melted into the woods twenty yards behind them.

“Lost your taste for battle?” He questioned her, wondering why she’d stopped.

“They were running.” 

Jaime rolled his eyes at her guileless expression. Of course, she _would_ spare the runners. 

“That’s the best time to kill them.” She may look a warrior, but she had quite a lot to learn of battle, and Jaime suspected a bit of a woman’s heart. 

“Why did you charge?” 

“Bowmen are fearless as long as they can hide behind a wall and shoot at you from afar, but if you come at them they run. They know what will happen when you reach them.” He laughed bitterly. “Cunts,” he muttered.

“Jaime!” Her exclamation made him smile. She was a part of Renly’s host, she should be used to that sort of language but he was strangely happy she wasn’t.

“You have an arrow in your leg, you know? You should let me tend to that.” She glanced down at her leg, looking a little surprised, before nodding to him. 

“Alright, I want to move on a bit, in case they come back with more men.”

He didn’t know whether or not he should tell her those archers were probably not the only outlaws they would see but honesty was his strong suit, regardless of whether or not it was pleasant. “Fine, if that will ease your girlish fears but those cowards are the least of our worries, compared to the other outlaws we’re bound to meet.” 

Brienne pushed her limp hair from her forehead with an exasperated little huff. “Yes, I know that.” She helped him to clamber back up on his beast before she swung up into her own and Jaime noticed the slightest wince as she adjusted her injured leg. “I just don’t intend to be here when they return.”

“Fine, fine,” he groused, “lead the way, but I want to look at your leg. Soon.” Her injury made him nervous and irritable. He clenched his useless hands together, straining at the ropes there, and wished he could pull them apart. The girl had honor and she was brave, which made him strangely proud, but she was going to need help protecting them. 

Jaime needed a sword and, conveniently, he knew just where to get one. 

He watched the hulking figure on the horse in front of him, her blue steel armour was dented and gleaming under the sun with her rose-and-blue quartered shield strapped to her back. She had two blades but she couldn’t wield both, and he had need of only one. 

“Brienne,” he called after some time, “slow down, we need to stop and get that bolt out of your calf.” He reined up his gelding. “I’m not going any further until I have a good look at you.”

“Jaime, I wanted to get-”

“This is as far as your going to get until I get that armour off you and dig that arrow head out.” He clumsily slid off his horse and sat down, peering up at her through locks of dirty blonde hair. 

“Jaime, get up.”

“No, I don’t think I will. My ass is sore and my boots have holes in them. Did you know I’ve been in these same Gods forsaken boots for over a year now? No wonder they’re falling apart. I’d have had new boots if you’d killed those damn archers when we had the chance. If I’d had a sword I’d have killed them myself.”

“I’ll not have you armed.” 

“And I’ll not have you riding with a bloody bolt in your leg, you stubborn wench!” He rolled his shoulders and sat up straighter, staring her down. She towered above him on her horse, her face scrunched in irritation and her blue eyes blazing. 

“Get. Up.”

“Take off your armour, let me see you.” She blushed deeply at his words.

“Get. Up. Now.”

“You want me? Come and get me.” She slid off her dray and marched at him angrily, Jaime was almost afraid. When she reached down and grabbed his arm to haul him to his feet, Jaime’s hand darted out and grabbed the hilt of the sword on her right hip. He pulled the blade from its scabbard and twisted from her grip in the same motion. 

“Oh,” he sighed lovingly, looking over the well-crafted sword in his hand, “how I’ve missed you.”

“Put it down, Ser Jaime.”

“Oh, Ser Jaime now, is it? I don’t think I will. I think I would like to test this metal. Care for a turn, my Lady?”

“I will fight you, Jaime, if I have to.” She’d pulled her own sword out the moment Jaime spun away from her. When she spoke she lifted her blade and leveled it at him. 

“Good. If I win, which I will, you will cut me loose and let me tend to your wounds. You will leave me unbound and armed for the rest of our journey.”

“And if I win?” Her expression was confident, he noted, a hint of smugness on her features. 

“You won’t.” She may be good, but she’d never seen him fight. She could not beat him, he was sure.

“What if I do?”

He smiled, “If you win, you get me-your own tamed Lion: bound, unarmed, and more docile than a kitten.” 

She grinned, looking to him like a lioness, and swung her sword. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always questions, criticism and comments are more than welcome.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sword fight and unexpected encounters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've contracted a pretty relentless cold so I've had a lot of time to sit with my laptop, underneath the covers on my couch, and daydream about J/B. 
> 
> Let me first say thank you to all my wonderful reviewers! I try to answer every single one of you because every single one of you makes me feel absolutely amazing. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Another big THANK YOU! goes to my beta, Valyrian Steel, whose insights and editing vastly improve the quality of this work. 
> 
> Now that I've said my piece, let's get on with it.

Jaime swung up to block her blow and the resulting clang of steel-on-steel strummed deep in his heart.

“Very good, Brienne,” he said with a smile. 

His blood pounded in his veins and into his limbs with more vigor than it had in a great while. _It sang_. With every clash of their swords he felt revitalized. Their swords kissed and sprung apart and kissed again. His green eyes were darting to follow her movements as he observed her style with the keen eye of a practiced swordsman. She was large, and terribly strong, but she feigned more than she attacked. She was biding her time, trying to wear him down. Jaime slowed his attacks in response, springing back from the collisions of metal instead of driving at her. She swung fiercely in return, thinking she had tired him out already, and he met her with jarring force. They beat at each other so hard there were sparks flying from where their edges met. “ _She thinks you’re weakened from your confinement_ ,” said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Ser Arthur Dayne giving Jaime pointers in the training yard. 

He would show her he was not.

He met her blow-for-blow, regardless of his bound hands. The sword was not a proper two-hand longsword but it made no difference. Jaime finally felt truly alive for the first time since the beginning of his long detainment. Swinging a sword was what he was meant for; he never felt more alive than when he had a sword in his hand, with death hanging on every stroke and turn. Jaime pivoted and was glad to see her footwork was sure and intuitive as she followed him. He found her to be uncommonly graceful for a sparring partner. He wondered if it had something to do with being a woman. She was, however, far from perfect.

“You are not properly armoured, Ser. Are you sure you want to continue?” She asked him, her voice curiously devoid of fatigue.

He ignored her concern and swung fiercely, causing her to jump back.

“You shouldn’t grimace before you lunge. It gives away the game. You’re opening your hands before you swing. It’s a common tell, my Lady. Keep your fingers tight around the hilt.” He fell into the old habit of critiquing her methods, as he once had for his brothers of the Kingsguard, while they struck at one another. And though she did not respond, he noticed her adjust her grip. 

He dodged twice but when he came up to block her again he felt an ache in his arms that shouldn’t have been there. 

“Not half bad,” he acknowledged, laughing. 

“For a wench?” She smiled back at him, exposing her overlarge teeth, and hacked at him from above. Jaime raised his sword and pushed her back. High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. With a strong attack he pinned her against a large oak and pressed their steel together, their faces mere inches apart. She leveraged herself against the tree with her heel and shoved forward, knocking him back.

“For a squire, say. A green one” he replied breathlessly. “Very green.”

“I spent my whole life hearing, ‘Jaime Lannister, what a good swordsman’,” she said as she parried another of his blows. She was focused but smiling and Jaime could see the song of steel in her as well. “I thought you’d be faster.”

He growled at her. He thought so too. He was growing tired much too soon and Jaime started to feel tell-tale quivers in his muscles as he laboured to keep up with her. He was neither swinging the sword as fast as when they’d started, nor lifting it as high. He cursed his captivity and the damned Starks. 

Her feet danced around him as he slid his blade off hers and pulled it back, leveling the sword and bringing his elbows up. She was not tired and he could see it in her features. Her blue eyes were the color of cornflowers and her pupils were dilated, her little tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Her cheeks were tinged pink from effort and it made her smattering of freckles all the more prominent. 

He thought he had her when Brienne stumbled over a root and went down on one knee, but she held him off and swung hard at him as she came up. Jaime laughed raggedly, “Come on, come on, my sweetling,” he beckoned. “The music’s still playing, may I have this dance?”

“Good, Ser,” she bowed to him mockingly, never taking her eyes from him. 

The dance went on. 

She struck and he parried, bringing his sword down and dropping it to his waist. He attacked then, sweeping his sword from his hip up to strike her. The blow glanced harmlessly off her weapon and caused Jaime to stumble forward. His left foot tangled with her right and she lost her balance. They’d been fighting near a small stream, one that he had hoped to use the water from to clean her wound, and that Jaime had forgot about in the heat of their small battle. Brienne stumbled back, her feet scrambling for purchase on wet, algae-covered rocks, and Jaime stumbled with her. They landed in the water with a splash. Jaime gave silent thanks that he was on top. Brienne’s armour would have been heavy enough to crush him with her in it. 

She kicked in an attempt to free herself from his grip and Jaime yelped as her knee connected with his side. With a grunt she flipped them and was attempting to pin his wrists above his head, but he was smaller and not hampered with plate and thick leather. He wriggled free of her grasp, “Oh, no you don’t,” he cried triumphantly as he nudged Brienne’s sword away from her reaching fingers. He scrambled over her in a flurry of water and mud. 

“YIELD!” 

“No,” she gritted out, straining to topple him. He caged her with his elbows on either side of her face, but her plate was wet and he slid to the side. Jaime desperately gripped at her wrists, his own still bound. He was unbalanced and at a disadvantage. She bucked wildly and unseated him. Jaime cursed as Brienne rolled them over. 

The brook was shallow but Jaime was still in danger of his head dipping below the water so he strained his neck forward, trying to sit up as best he could. Brienne was directly above him. Her hair was dripping wet, her skin the color of Dornish cherries and her eyes alight and bluer than the waters of Tarth. She grinned down at him in victory. In the light of the midday sun her wet hair almost sparkled. He watched as her lips parted. 

“Yield?” She asked him.

He kissed her instead.

At first her lips were unmoving and she tried to jerk back but his bound hands where buried in the bit of exposed tunic at her neck, holding her to him. Soon her hands slid behind his head, holding him up, and her mouth opened above his. He let his tongue slip out to tangle with hers fiercely. He surged forward, pressing himself against her, and moaned when he met hard plate instead of her body. He wanted her, desperately. It was a totally foreign feeling, to want someone so much who wasn’t his sister. Suddenly she was working a knife from her belt and Jaime froze, not understanding, but then his ropes were cut and he was sinking a hand into her watery locks and twining his fingers there. He bit at her full lips as she clumsily met him, kiss-for-kiss, a dance, just as she had met him blow-for-blow with her sword. She groaned into his mouth and Jaime sighed in response.

And the woods surrounding them rang with course laughter.

Brienne jumped away from him as if she had been burned. He remained partly submerged, his judgment clouded with thoughts of only her. She was red around the mouth from his unruly beard and her eyes were darting from side-to-side. Her hand went to her hip, but she only grasped at a sword that wasn’t there. Below the waist she was all wet and covered in mud, her clothing askew. By the mortified look on her face you’d think they caught them fucking instead of kissing. He wondered idly, how long it would have been before that was exactly what those men would have caught them doing. Jaime was painfully hard, though he softened when he looked upon the interlopers. 

Armed men lined both sides of the brook. _Small wonder. We made enough noise to wake a dragon_.

“Well met, friends,” Jaime began as he stood. “My pardons if I disturbed you, you caught me chastising my wife.”

“Didn’t look much like chastising from here.” The man who spoke was thick set and dark skinned, powerful. He had on a helm that didn’t quite cover his lack of nose. 

“We enjoy a good fight. Gets our juices flowing.” He smiled his most genial smile, shrugging his shoulders. 

These were not the same outlaws who had harassed them earlier. The thought caused Jaime to shoot a look at Brienne’s leg. It seemed the bolt was ripped clean of her flesh during their fight, there was a red flower blooming on her breaches, but nothing more. He looked back up and examined the men who surrounded them. These men were the scum of the realm and beyond: swarthy Dornishmen , blonde Lyseni, a thick Dothraki with bells in his braids, hairy Ibbenese, coal-black Summer Islanders. They were all the filthy dregs of society in one vicious group. He knew them. _The Brave Companions_. 

Brienne found her voice then, “I have 500 stags,” she told them. 

“We’ll take that for a start, m’lady.” The noseless man laughed. “We’ll have your cunt next, since you’re already wet and ready. It can’t be as ugly as the rest o’ you.” The man laughed harder and Brienne blanched beside Jaime. His fingers sought hers out and gripped her tightly. It must have looked comical because the rest of the scum joined in with Noseless. 

“Rorge,” another of the men shouted to the noseless man, “take the bitch from behind and rape her arse, so you don’t have to look at her.” 

Noseless laughed, “And rob her o’ the pleasure o’ lookin’ at me?” 

Jaime saw red and gritted his teeth to keep from saying anything that was like to get them both killed. These men were dogs, vile dogs. His father had always said so. Thankfully Tywin Lannister had uses for dogs; he used them to scare his prey and sniff out his enemies. These particular dogs had been in his father’s employ last he’d heard. Jaime decided when he returned to King’s Landing he would have to discuss The Brave Companions with Tywin. 

“Who commands here?” Jaime demanded.

A cadaver stepped forward, pallid and clammy with blue veins visible on his wide forehead and the backs of his hands. “I have that honor. Urswyck the Faithful they call me.”

“Urswyck, you know who I am?” Jaime asked.

“It takes more than a beard to fool The Brave Companions, Kingslayer,” said the man.

 _The Bloody Mummers, you mean_. The name came to Jaime suddenly and he suppressed a shiver. That was what the smallfolk called them, and the high lords behind their backs. He continued, undaunted. “Then you know how much I’m worth. Take me to my father and you’ll be rewarded generously. A Lannister always pays his debts. As for my companion, she’s highborn and worth a good ransom.” 

Jaime shook his wet hair from his face and made a show of ringing out the rags he was dressed in. 

Urswyck cocked his head and Jaime cringed as the man’s thick lips slid across his teeth, like fat worms, forming a smile. “Is that so? Well, that’s fortunate.” 

Urswyck’s disgusting, sly smile made Jaime uncomfortable. 

“You heard me. Where’s the goat?” He finally said, squeezing Brienne’s fingers tighter. 

The goat was what men called Vargo Hoat when he wasn’t in hearing distance. He was the leader of The Brave Companions and utterly deplorable. He was a man without honor, skill or money. What he did have was unscrupulous morals and a lisp. 

“He’s a few hours distant, not far. He’ll be pleased to see you, but I wouldn’t call him goat to his face. Lord Hoat grows prickly about his dignity.”

 _What dignity?_ Jaime thought but didn’t say, instead held his tongue in check and tried to remain polite. “Lord of what, pray?”

“Harrenhal,” replied Urswyck. “It has been promised.”

Jaime almost laughed. His father had, quite obviously, taken leave of his senses. Vargo Hoat wasn’t fit to be the lord of a cistern, let alone a castle.

“Then you’ll lead us to him.” They laughed and the pit of Jaime’s stomach dropped. _Something_ , he thought, _is very wrong_. “Have I said something amusing?” He tried to keep the fear out of his voice but his hand itched for a sword- two actually, one for him and one for Brienne. These men were not afraid of him, he could tell, and if he and Brienne were going to die he’d prefer it be fighting.

“You’re funnier than that time Biter bit off that Septa’s teats,” growled noseless. Or perhaps he was laughing, Jaime couldn’t tell. 

“Your father lost too many battles. We had to trade our lion pelts for wolf skins, Kingslayer. We now serve Lord Bolton, and the King in the North.”

Jaime gave them a cold smile. “And people say _I_ have shit for honor.” Urswyck stepped forward, his fist raised to strike Jaime but Brienne swung her arm up and caught the bare fist against her gauntlet. Urswyck roared with rage.

“He is not to be harmed! I was charged by Lady Catelyn to return Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing in exchange for her daughters. If you are in service of King Robb than you should let us be on our way.”

“Did she tell you to fuck him too?” Urswyck spat, scowling, before he charged. 

Brienne dove for her sword beneath the brook and Jaime scrambled for his own, but the Mummers were on them. 

In the end it took seven of The Brave Companions to restrain them. Brienne’s face was bloody and swollen, as he knew his probably was also. It certainly felt like it. They were dragged, stumbling, through the woods to the horses. Brienne was stripped of her armour but, to Jaime’s satisfaction, that was all they did to her. They didn’t bother with him seeing as his clothes could hardly be considered fit for a beggar. The two of them were mounted on the same horse, a big black warhorse with a wide back, and tied facing each other. The Mummers thought it was a funny joke, tying them to each other and calling them “the lovers.” 

They would take her maidenhead that night, the noseless one for sure and the others after most like. The thought made his body clench with fury but Jaime knew there was little to be done about it. Most of those men had never been with a highborn woman and they weren’t likely to pass up the opportunity. Brienne sat stiffly against him, her knees bumping his as the horse was led through the wilderness. “Brienne, listen to me,” he said quietly into the skin of her neck. He felt her shiver beneath his lips and he kissed her collarbone gently. “When we make camp tonight you’ll be raped, more than once. Don’t resist, give them what they want. If you don’t, you’ll get more than a kick in the teeth.”

“You think I care about my teeth?” She asked bitterly.

“No,” he responded, “I don’t think you care about your teeth. But I care about your life and so should you. If you fight, they will kill you. Shut your eyes and go away inside. Seven hells, pretend they’re me.”

He felt her flush beneath his touch.

“Is that what you would do, if you were a woman?”

He thought for a moment. _If I were a woman I’d be Cersei_. “I’d make them kill me. But I’m not, thank the gods.” He pulled his head back and looked her in the eye. “Urswyck, a word!”

Urswyck led his horse up to theirs, reining up when he was even with Jaime. “What would you have of me, Ser? And mind your tongue.”

“You like gold?” Jaime asked. “Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you?”

“It has its uses, I confess.” Urswyck studied him and Jaime realized why he was the leader of that little band. Urswyck was sly and perhaps not as dim as the rest of them.

“All the gold in Casterly Rock,” Jaime said with a cunning smile, “why let the goat have it? Why not take us to King’s Landing, collect our ransoms yourself? This is Brienne of Tarth, her father is Lord Selwyn Tarth. Have you heard of Tarth?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle. Do you know why?” He could feel Brienne squirm in her seat as Urswyck studied her. “It’s because every sapphire in Westeros was mined on Tarth. Her father would pay her weight in sapphires if she were returned to him, her honor unbesmirched.” 

“Do you take me for a turncloak?” 

“Certainly. What else?” 

“King’s Landing is a long way, and your father is there. Lord Tywin may resent us for selling Harrenhal to Lord Bolton.”

It was just as Jaime suspected, Urswyck was smarter than the others. 

“My father is a fair man. You would be paid for your service to him. I’ll get you a royal pardon for your crimes, a knighthood even.” _Right before you’re hanged, with your pockets bulging_. 

“ _Ser_ Urswyck sounds good. And what of brave Lord Vargo?” 

Jaime smirked. “Shall I sing you a verse from ‘The Rains of Castamere’? I don’t think Lord Vargo will be so brave when my father comes for him.”

“Is that so?” He asked, before lazily slapping Jaime across the face. The insolence hurt more than the blow itself. “I’ve heard enough, Kingslayer. I would have to be a fool to take the word of an oathbreaker like you. You and your whore will go to Lord Vargo.” Urswyck nudged his mount and galloped ahead of them. 

When he was out of earshot Brienne dipped her head, resting it on his shoulder. He nuzzled her for a moment before she began to speak. “Why did you do that? Why did you tell them my father is rich in gemstones? You know Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle for the blue of its waters.”

“You’re lucky I did,” he whispered back. “The sooner they know how little your worth the sooner the rapes begin. I didn’t want-” he stopped speaking when he felt her lips open against his ear.

“Thank you, Jaime,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so that happened. Questions, comments and concerns are welcome. I enjoy your praise and criticism in equal measure so let me know what you think. Thank you again for reading and I hope to see you next chapter!


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A goat in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your reviews! They mean the world to me! They really, really do. A big shout out specifically to my beta, the fabulous _valyriansteel_. If you're enjoying this story you owe much of that affection to her diligent work cleaning up my messes and more importantly to all of the invaluable advice on my characters and the plot of this story. 
> 
> I hope you like it!

The sun was low in the sky when they reached Vargo Hoat. The dense forest was alive with the sounds of animals, animals the likes of which that forest had never before seen. 

_The Bloody Mummers_.

There were a dozen or so ruthlessly sacking a small sept. When Urswyck’s horses came upon the group, there were catcalls from as many different lands as there were faces to meet them. Raucous laughter followed shortly thereafter when Jaime and Brienne came into sight. Jaime lifted his head to look over Brienne’s shoulder and watched as the fattest Dothraki he ever saw took his knife to the gemstone eyes of a wooden carved deity, the Mother, of the sept. He was sitting on her chest, prying diligently while the bells in his hair tinkled. Beyond him a bald septon was swinging from a thick branch, jutting from a large weirwood tree. The septon spun listlessly as Vargo’s men used him for an archery butt. They shot him so full of arrows he looked like one of aunt Genna’s pincushions. One of them, Jaime noted, must have been a decent shot because the septon had quarrels through both of his eyes. 

Lord Vargo was sitting before a cook fire, tearing a half-roasted bird off a skewer bit-by-bit. Jaime shuddered as he watched thin tendrils of grease and blood slide down the man’s chin and into his long, filthy beard. The beard itself was matted into two slender points extending from Hoat’s chin and it waggled stiffly as he chewed. Lord Vargo finished that bite and set the skewer back over the fire, causing it to crackle with grease drippings, as he rose casually. He wiped his shiny fingers on his already filthy tunic and smiled. 

“Kingthlayer,” he said while he lifted his hands in welcome. “You are my captifth.”

He felt Brienne take a breath to speak but he pressed himself to her desperately, “No,” Jaime whispered. Brienne could not see Hoat from her vantage point and did not yet know how unreasonable he would be. 

“But if he’s King Robb’s-” she whispered back to him but he shook his head as minutely as he could. It was not enough, Urswyck noticed Jaime’s plea to Brienne and piped up.

“And Brienne of Tarth, Lord Vargo. She’s worth her weight in sapphires, that one.” The goat looked her over. 

“Thee’th a big bitch,” he said, examining them as he walked up. “Why are they tied together? Untie them.” Three of The Brave Companions dismounted. One began to saw at their bindings while the other two waited, presumably one each to help them down. Or drag them. 

“They’re lovers, Lord Vargo. We found ‘em rutting in a stream.” The goat laughed and Jaime wanted to slit his throat. A hairy Ibbenese man was the one to finally saw through the ropes that held him and Brienne together. Jaime was dragged from the horse unceremoniously and Brienne was treated much the same. 

“My Lord,” Brienne shouted, “I am Brienne of Tarth. I was charged by Lady Catelyn Stark to return Jaime Lannister to his brother in King’s Landing.” 

Lord Vargo’s black eyes swung to her disinterestedly before looking Jaime over again. “Thilence your whore, Kingthlayer.”

“Hear me,” she started again while her and Jaime’s wrist ropes were being cut, but Jaime lifted his foot casually and brought it down hard on her ankle. Brienne yelped in pain and jerked her head to Jaime. He shook his head again and she glared at him but her mouth stayed shut. 

Rorge, the noseless man who’d threatened to rape Brienne at the brook, shoved Jaime towards the cookfire and the flat rock Lord Vargo was using as a table. It was covered in splatters of grease and blood, much like Lord Vargo. “Thith ith a thweet day,” Lord Vargo said. As he spoke the chain of coins around his neck jingled. They were various shapes, sizes and colors, all from different places. On their faces were stamped the images of gods and men, demons and dragons. _Coins from every land where he has fought_. Jaime remembered. _Greed. The key to this man is greed_. 

“Lord Vargo,” he started, “leaving my father’s service was an unwise decision but it is not too late to make amends. He will pay for me, and well. You know it.”

Lord Vargo’s belly shivered as he laughed. “Yeth,” he bellowed. “Half the gold in Cathterly Rock, I thall have. But firth I mutht thend him a methage.” He said something in his slithery goatish tongue, something Jaime didn’t understand but apparently Urswyck did because he kicked the back of Jaime’s knee viciously. 

Jaime went down to his knees and a fool in faded green and pink motley planted his foot on Jaime’s back and pushed. He slumped forward over the large flat stone and the fool jumped on his back. He felt pressure on his shoulders and Jaime almost bucked, almost threw the man off. _No, there are too many. I would take one or two to hell with me, maybe three. But I will die_. He thought of Brienne, how she would be beaten bloody, raped. She might fight at first, but eventually she would go away inside like he’d advised. They’d kill her as sure as they will have killed him, but slower. The lights behind her eyes would go out long before her heart stopped.

“Zollo!” shouted the fool on his back and Jaime whipped his head up. 

The fat Dothraki that Jaime had seen maiming the face of the Mother moments before put away his knife to unsheathe a curved _arahk_. The _arahk_ was the wickedly sharp scythe of the Dothraki horselords and that one looked to be in impeccable condition. 

_They mean to scare me_. The fool on Jaime’s back giggled madly as the Dothraki swaggered forward. _The goat wants me to piss my breeches and beg his mercy, but he’ll never have that pleasure_. Jaime was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, he was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and he was the _Kingslayer_. No sellsword in all of Westeros could make him scream. 

Sunlight glimmered on the _arahk_ when the Dothraki raised it high above his head. Jaime watched, fascinated, as it came shrieking down. 

Brienne screamed. 

Jaime stumbled backwards suddenly as the fool rolled off of his back and the Dothraki staggered over and onto the flat, blood smattered stone table. A knife, the same one he’d been using earlier, sunk deep in his spine. Brienne was toppled almost instantly by Rorge and a savage Summer Islander in a feather mantle. She furiously threw her head into Rorge, causing him to stagger back. 

“See that you don’t break any bones,” cried Urswyck. “The horse-faced bitch is worth her weight in sapphires!” 

The Summer Islander hauled her to her feet and threw her to her knees beside Jaime. Her bottom lip, which he’d so tenderly nipped at that morning, was split wide and the blood ran thickly down her chin. “Why did you do that?” He asked quietly but she didn’t respond to him. She was too busy staring at the goat.

“That was foolith, wench!” The goat roared with his lips slathered in a greasy film of foul saliva and oil. 

“He is not to be harmed.” Brienne’s voice was as calm as her features, determined. “In the name of the King in the North, the King you serve.” Lord Vargo studied her, his beady eyes glistening in the pale yellow and oranges of the fire. Jaime shifted on his knees, feeling the crunch of rocks and dirt press themselves deeper into the skin of his knees. He tried to focus on the feeling and stay as still as possible. He didn’t dare look at Brienne while Vargo Hoat watched them.

“Who wath holding the Kingthlayer’s whore?” He asked the collective, though he kept his focus on Brienne and Jaime. A Dornishman was pushed forward. He had a spear tied to his back and a long red scarf wrapped around his dented helm. 

Jaime recognized the man as being the one who had tied them together on the horse, the one who thought it had been funny to nickname them the lovers. ‘The lovers, and what a lovely sight they are,’ he’d said. ‘Twould be cruel to part the lady and her good knight.’ The fool, the one they called Shagwell, had answered with a shrill laugh. ‘But which one is the knight and which the lady?’ If looks could kill Jaime would have slain them a dozen times since. 

He watched as Lord Vargo beckoned the Dornishman over to the fire. “Timeon,” he slithered out, “you let thith wench get the better of you?”

“She’s an aurochs in plate. I ain’t never seen a wench the like of her.” Timeon was visibly shaken but Jaime couldn’t be bothered to feel sorry for the poor bastard. The goat just smiled. 

“The ugliest woman I ever seen,” Rorge the noseless agreed. “But don’t think I can’t make her uglier. I’ll pull out all your teeth and fuck your mouth while Shagwell fucks your arse, bitch.” He growled, stepping closer to Brienne. Jaime could see a large lump forming in the center of his vast forehead where Brienne had smashed her head into his. 

“Thee’th not to be touched!” The goat screamed. “Thee hath to be a maid, you foolth! Thee’th worth a bag of Thapphireth!” During his tirade he managed to spray spittle all over the hunched body of the Dothraki, Zollo. 

“How do we know the Kingslayer hasn’t fucked ‘er?” Rorge replied but Lord Vargo ignored him.

“Timeon,” he said quietly, gesturing for the dark skinned man to come closer. 

Timeon took another step forward before he was violently grabbed by his hair and forced to his knees in front of Lord Hoat. The goat fisted the Dornishman’s dark ponytail and turned Timeon to face Jaime and Brienne, kicking Zollo out of the way in the process. The leader of The Brave Companions pulled a knife from his belt. It was long and sharp with a fine bone handle and gleaming teeth all down the blade’s edge. He pressed it to Timeon’s throat and, with a grunt, began to saw. The spray of hot blood splattered Jaime’s face and Brienne’s, as well as everything else within five feet of them. Jaime was vaguely aware of the stoic woman beside him but he only had eyes for the goat. The man sawed until he reached the white of Timeon’s spine.

Lord Vargo smirked and dropped Brienne’s gaoler on the flat rock, letting the rest of the blood in the man’s neck puddle underneath him. “Your whore ith amuthing, Kingthlayer, if thee trieth that again I’ll take her head. And yourth.”

That night they were bound together again. Jaime said not a word to her after they were dragged away and secured. They were given little water and less food but they were both alive and, mercifully, whole. Jaime replayed the events in his mind as they sat in silence, waiting for morning. The sight of the _arahk_ as it sped toward his outstretched swordhand. The sound it made when it scraped against the rock without meeting flesh. Brienne’s split lip. Blood spray falling across his cheeks. 

He shook the matted hair from his eyes with a shudder. Deciding he was not quite ready for sleep, Jaime looked up at the sky. He watched the stars twinkling in and out of existence against the black velvet of night. He used to do the same thing with Cersei when they were young, though he’d never taken Brienne out. They were tied back-to-back so he tilted his head and rested it on her shoulder. When enough time had passed that it seemed as though The Brave Companions had lost interest in their prisoners, Jaime spoke.

“Do you have this many stars over your Sapphire Isle?” He felt Brienne tilt her head back.

“Yes,” she sighed. 

“And do you know them, the stars?” He kept his voice quiet to avoid rousing anyone. He had no desire to be beaten again that day. 

“I know the Evenstar,” she replied. “My septa showed it to me when I was a girl.” Her voice was quiet as well but he needn’t strain to hear her.

“And?” 

“That’s the only one I know. It’s at the zenith.” He felt her hair, filthy with blood and foul mud, brush against his cheek when she dipped her head back further to see it. He didn’t shy away; it was comforting somehow.

“Ah, then allow me. The Evenstar sits atop the King’s Crown. See there, those smaller stars to the right and left and that row beneath them. That’s the King’s Crown.”

She was silent some seconds before taking in a breath, “I see it.” She whispered to him, barely concealing her excitement at locating it. “Do you know of others?”

“Of course, there are plenty more, my lady. Maesters have more time to look at the sky than there is sky to look at. To the left of the crown, or your right I suppose, that’s the Stallion. That little cluster of stars at the top is the mane and those five stars that make a sort of handle, that’s the tail.” 

“That one’s harder,” she said after a moment. “It looks more like a soup ladle than a stallion.”

“No sense of fancy about you is there?” he laughed softly. “There’s the Moonmaid, over by that tall pine. You can make out the head and neck but you can’t see the rest of her. Shy as ever.” 

Jaime imagined the maid behind him, tried to picture her face as she stared at the stars above them. He tried to recall the look she gave when she was fascinated with something, utterly focused. He knew her eyes would narrow ever so slightly, her brows furrowed, and her mouth pursed. She might pull her plump bottom lip up under her teeth. They were somewhat over large but clean and straight. When she was little she would twirl her long fingers into the tiny hairs at the base of her neck, it was a little tick he noticed whenever she sat with the Maester of Casterly Rock. He pictured that room, wishing they were back at the Rock. He tried to imagine her standing beside him, her hands resting casually on the balcony rail before them, her head tilted back. He would stand behind her, an arm outstretched over her shoulder with his finger pointed to a point in the sky. He would be using his most scholarly tone to educate her on the movements of the heavens and then he would lean forward just the slightest bit... 

“And the Swan. That one is on the other side of the King’s Crown, is it not?”

He blinked. 

“That’s exactly right. That blueish star, the First Men called it Oculyse; it’s the eye of the Swan. That’s the best way to find it. Those stars around it shape the head and beak.” Jaime shivered. The cold and inactivity were beginning to chill him.

“I can see that one,” Brienne said. “I can see a body too, with wings.” He tried to focus on Brienne and not the growing chill in his chest, he liked the sense of wonder in her voice. It reminded him of her youth, innocence even.

“Brienne?” 

“Hmm.” Her reply was distracted and he knew she was still stargazing but he’d closed his eyes to the sky and all he could see was her face as she stood behind Zollo for that split second. He could picture clearly her expression as the Dothraki fell, right before she was jumped by Rorge. She’d met his eyes and smiled savagely.

“Brienne, why did you do it?” She sat up, removing her head from his shoulder. He shook his head to try and remove his hair from his eyes but it just flopped back uselessly.

“Do what?” Her voice was a flat, blank. _Clueless_. 

“You saved my hand. You saved me.” As much as he was loathe to admit he’d needed saving. They would have taken his hand and there would have been naught for him to do about it but bleed.

“You’re more than a swordhand, Jaime,” she whispered into the night. The words floated through his mind. _Was he_? “It would not have killed you.”

“Oh yes, I am aware. Yet you still killed him. Why didn’t you let them take it?”

“You are not to be harmed.” She was firm and it almost reminded him of Lord Tywin. Her tone brooked no argument. He dug his heel into the dirt and twisted it, creating a little divot as he thought.

“You could have been killed for that, you know.”

“And I could have been raped but you made them believe I’m worth more than I am, more than they can hope to get.” Jaime snuggled his head into her warm neck and sighed. 

_You’re worth more than you know_.

“So, we are even?” he said instead.

“We are.” He could hear the small smile in her voice. She leaned her head back and rested it against him once more. A strong wind kicked up the leaves around them and Jaime pressed his body against her back and closed his eyes. She might have been as filthy as he was, with blood drying on her face and mud stiff in her tunic, but she was warm. “For now.”

Jaime fell into a fitful sleep that night, punctuated by cold sweats and strange half-remembered dreams. Every turn of the moon and rise of the sun after they met Lord Vargo became another part in a long cycle of discomfort.

After that first night they were tied together every day to ride. Sometimes Shagwell tied the couple back-to-back and sometimes he, or another, tied them facing each other for the day. Brienne always complained loudly whenever they did that, which ‘amuthed’ Lord Vargo. It encouraged the goat to have them tied that way more often than not. This was, of course, what they wanted. It was easier to converse privately, when tied like ‘lovers,’ and they were spared the sight of The Brave Companions. When they were back-to-back they were forced to spend long hours in silence, with nothing to distract them from their abductors, painfully aware they were watched. When they were tied face-to-face Jaime and Brienne endured lewd taunts but were able to find solace in each other. Jaime would bury his face in her neck and mumble crude obscenities about their captors and Brienne would smother what laughter he could ring out of her in his soiled golden hair. 

Their days were not comfortable but Jaime was oft reminded, at night, that it could be worse. One of them, or occasionally both, would receive a beating every evening. Sometimes there was an indication of who it was going to be but not typically. Jaime thought the bastards may have had a system, but if there was one he couldn’t discern it. Jaime would be casually beaten three days in a row while he spit taunts and insults at the perpetrators and then on the fourth day Brienne would be viciously kicked bloody for being a ‘silent cow.’ She begged him not to taunt The Bloody Mummers but lack of food, water and a proper bath made Jaime edgy. He’d been a captive too long and seeing Brienne in fetters burned his blood in his veins. 

On one such night, after watching Brienne silently endure another thrashing, Jaime had a few choice words for The Bloody Mummers. He’d dared them, begged them, to let him free for just a night. One night was all he needed to rid the realm of their filth. It was a challenge and a promise. 

They refused, the cowards.

He spent that evening instead using his tunic to clumsily wipe the blood from Brienne’s face and neck, taking care to clean her hair and around her eyes as well as possible. The next night a countryman of poor, dead Timeon whipped his face with a throng of leather. The ordeal left him with two deep gashes, one across his right cheek and the other over his left eye. They burned, his whole face burned, for days after. He vowed to himself that he would keep his promise. One day he would kill them for what they had done.

 _Kill them all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! 
> 
> Well, that may not have gone exactly how you anticipated (although perhaps some of you guessed) but I hope no one is disappointed. I wasn't totally sure how to approach this particular time in the story but my beta made a very compelling argument for poor Jaime's swordhand and in the end I decided to keep it. I think it's a challenge to write and I also think that it allows me as a writer to move more freely into my own AU version of this universe. 
> 
> As always, comments, questions, criticism and concerns are more than welcome. I can't wait to hear what you think.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harrenhal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this took so long guys, life happens. You know how it is. But the show goes on! Many thanks to all of my readers and reviewers and a great big THANK YOU to my beta _valyriansteel_.

Vargo Hoat was a man who, unlike Jaime’s first presumption, wanted something more than gold. He wanted respect. To this end he unsaddled his ‘captiths’ and force them to walk the last mile and in through the gates of Harrenhal. 

Harrenhal, that black and bloodied place, marred the countryside with its high scorched towers and disfigured stonework. Jaime laughed when the great monstrosity came into view, earning himself a smack to the back of his head. He glared at the Brave Companion who was his constant abuser, the fool in purple and grey motley. Jaime vowed to one day avenge his mistreatment by watching Shagwell’s gay motley run red with blood. 

“Why did you laugh?” Brienne’s whisper brought him back to the road and their walk. 

He turned to her, shaking the hair from his eyes and grinning, “I was given my white cloak here.” She frowned at him and lifted her bound hand to his face.

“You’re warm,” she said softly.

“So are you,” he replied, though he was sure she didn’t understand his meaning. “I took my vows here and now I’ve come back.” 

He really couldn’t expect her to appreciate the irony. That it was Harrenhal where he was raised up and Harrenhal again where he is cast down. How the pride of being given a white cloak turned to bitter ash in his mouth. “I was supposed to compete in Lord Whent’s tourney but never did get the chance.” He continued to look up at the large, melted walls and blackened roofs. He remembered that day so clearly. “The instant that cloak was fastened about my neck King Aerys took it upon himself to weigh it down. He sent me to King’s Landing to be with the Queen and his children. I think it took me half the journey to realize he didn’t want me for my skill.”

“To be a part of a Kingsguard is a great honor. When Renly gave me my cloak-” 

“He did mean it as an honor, I’m sure. But Renly Baratheon was not King Aerys. My white cloak was a hollow gift. King Aerys thought only of the slight it would be to my father. I fear he didn’t think of me at all.” 

Jaime could hear the bitterness in his voice but he chose to ignore it. King Aerys was dead and Jaime was so alive. Besides that, it appeared that someone had dug a privy trench in the exact spot Jaime had knelt to take his vows. How perfect. He couldn’t help the sneering, bitter smile that crossed his features then. He thought it must make him look truly wretched for the way Brienne turned away from him.

The walls of Harrenhal were thick. So much so that passing underneath them was like passing through a stone tunnel. The Boltons flayed their enemies and that was really all Jaime could remember of the family, which wasn’t such a feat considering their sigil. Everywhere Jaime looked he saw Lord Bolton’s banners, the flayed man of the Dreadfort, as a reminder of the favorite pastime of Boltons throughout history. Brienne also noted the Twin Towers of House Frey and the grey and white banners of House Stark. He glared at the sigil of Eddard Stark and turned back to his companion. She was pale faced and her freckles were made all the more noticeable by contrast. Her hair was matted and filthy with bits of twig in places. His hair, he mused, must look very much the same. She was marginally better dressed than he, but her once clean tunic and breeches looked much more like his begger’s rags than they did when they started out on their little journey. As they walked through the gates of Harrenhal Jaime noted there were heads on pikes beside the great Direwolf standard flying above the gate. 

An ill omen. 

Lord Vargo had sent one of his monsters ahead of the caravan to announce their arrival. As a result, the outer wall was crammed with curious onlookers but they parted easily enough for Jaime and Brienne to pass through. Lord Bolton awaited them just inside the castle proper with a small retinue of guards.

“Lord Bolton, I give you the Kingthlayer!” Vargo Hoat slobbered. Jaime was jabbed in the back with a spear, knocking him to his knees. Instinctively he caught himself with his hands and pushed his body upward to stop from falling face first. With another jab, they knocked Brienne into the dirt beside him. “And hith whore.”

Before them stood five mailed knights, all Frey’s by the look of the sigils on their surcoats. Three were Lord Walder’s own sons. Jaime jogged his memory, “Ser Danwell, Ser Aenys, Ser Hosteen, how pleasant of you to meet me, although you need not have gone through the trouble.” He knew them by sight only because his aunt Genna had married a Frey. She was the mother of Ser Cleos, a boy with water for blood and more Frey about him than Lannister. His father had never been fond of the match but his aunt had never rued it. She told Jaime once that she only did well in a castle she could run and Frey men were content to let better women manage their affairs. Lord Walder’s sons looked uncomfortable but stayed silent beside the Northman in front of them, presumably, Lord Bolton. 

“My Lords, hear me for your oath. I saw your banners.” Brienne piped up beside him. He almost shook his head. She was so naïve as to think she could deal with these pitiable men. _She must not know much of House Frey._

“Who speaks?” Asked Ser Aenys Frey, the eldest.

“We told you, thith ith Lannither’th whore.” Lord Vargo’s men laughed behind them but Brienne continued unhindered.

“I am Brienne of Tarth, daughter of Selwyn the Evenstar, Lord of Tarth. I am sworn to House Stark even as you.”

Ser Hosteen spit on the ground before them, “For your oaths, my Lady. We trusted the word of Robb Stark, and he repaid our faith with betrayal.” 

_This is interesting. What could good King Robb have done to evoke such anger in his allies?_

Jaime twisted to see how Brienne would take the accusation but she was single-minded. 

“I know of no betrayal,” she replied earnestly. “Lady Catelyn commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to his brother in King’s Landing-”

“She had her tongue in his mouth when we found them in a river. Bastard’s lucky she didn’t drown him,” Urswyck the Faithful supplied from behind them. 

Jaime watched as Brienne’s face blanched and then flushed in quick succession. “I wouldn’t have- he wouldn’t-”

“I was in no danger, my Lords, I assure you. Lady Brienne took her… _position_ very seriously.” If they were alone she would have cuffed him, hard. He was sure of it. As they were bound and bleeding, kneeling before Lord Bolton, that would have to wait.

When Roose Bolton did finally speak it was in a voice so soft, the bickering Freys and Brave Companions had to silence themselves to hear. 

“I am very sorry, my Lady. Forgive me.” He stepped forward and two of his guards, not Frey’s Jaime noticed, stepped with him. He gestured at her ropes. “Cut her loose.” When she stood he took her filthy hand in his without flinching and met her eyes. “It is hard to tell friend from foe in these dark days, my Lady. I hope you understand. You are under my protection now.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” was all she said. 

Then he turned to Jaime and looked down at him. “Rise, Ser Jaime, if you would.” Jaime stood as best he could whilst bound and the guards cut him loose as well. “I apologize for your treatment. These are my guests. See that they are treated that way.” He said the words quietly but the onlookers heard clearly enough. 

To Jaime’s ears, Roose Bolton did not sound truly remorseful for their treatment and no matter what he said they were definitely not his guests; they were prisoners. At that moment though he just tried to ignore the fluttering in his stomach and the way Roose Bolton set his teeth on edge. 

“Thank you, Lord Bolton,” he replied as evenly as he could. He felt slightly faint and he could feel the burning that had been ever present on his face intensify as he stood before the Lord of Harrenhal. 

“What happened to his face?” Lord Bolton asked abruptly, turning to Lord Vargo.

“Nothing he didn’t detherve, m’Lord.” Jaime wanted to spin around and grip Lord Vargo’s greasy beard and hold it while he hacked at the goat’s throat, but instead he stood very still. He didn’t have a sword and he didn’t have a plan but he resolved, very soon, to have both. 

“Hold your tongue, unless you want to lose it. You are not the Lord of Harrenhal yet.” Vargo Hoat did hold his tongue and stepped back from Lord Bolton’s wrath. “Find suitable rooms for our guests,” he said to no one in particular but men around him moved into action. 

“Lord Bolton,” Jaime said shakily. The exertion of walking that last mile, with little food and water, was beginning to wear on him. His face was throbbing and his head felt heavy. “Do you have word from the capitol?” Jaime needed to hear of his family, his brother and sister…his children.

“You haven’t heard. Stannis Baratheon laid siege to King’s Landing. He sailed into Blackwater Bay. He stormed the gates with thousands of men.” Roose Bolton’s face was passive but Jaime felt his heart clench. “And your sister-”

 _Cersei._

“How can I put this? Your sister is…alive and well.” Jaime let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and swayed on his feet but Brienne swiftly moved to his side and caught his arm. He struggled to keep his feet but he was thankful for her strength. “Your father and the Tyrells met Stannis’s forces at the gate and threw them back. It’s said that your brother burned the Blackwater with wildfire.” 

Jaime drew in a deep, shuddering breath but a weak, “Thank you,” was all he could manage.

“Ser Jaime is unwell. Take him to Qyburn. Amabel, find something suitable for Lady Brienne.”

A man named Walton pried Jaime from Brienne’s grip, though not easily. He was taken to see an older gentleman with grey tufts of fluffy hair, warm brown eyes and no beard. He wore Maester’s robes but bore no chain. “Ser Jaime.” 

“Qyburn, I presume.” He said as he looked the man over. They were in the maester’s chambers, beneath the rookery. The loud caws of the birds managed to distract Jaime as his face was cleaned and covered with a foul smelling salve. 

“I have to admit my surprise,” the man said, “that you and your… _friend_ remain whole. One does not remain a stranger to stumps when traveling with Vargo Hoat. He makes them wherever he goes.”

“Yes, he would. Well, we two are very lucky then, it would seem.”

“So it would. You have a cut here above your eye, it looks older than these lash marks and the skin is inflamed. I’ll have to bleed it.”

“A gift,” said Jaime, thinking of his fight with Brienne. He’d cut himself on her armor as they rolled in the brook. “A maiden’s gift.”

Qyburn chuckled. “Rough wooing, my Lord?”

“Not as such. You’d better see to her too, she’s still limping from a quarrel to the leg.”

“I’ll ask after her,” Qyburn said, looking strangely at Jaime. “What is this woman to you?” His question caught Jaime off guard. _Friend? Lover? Captor?_

“My protector,” he had to laugh although it hurt his wounds. 

Qyburn instructed Jaime to lay back and then gently placed a leech over his eye to drain the bad blood. While Jaime sat, being sucked on, the old man ground up some herbs for Jaime to have with his wine. Qyburn said it would bring down the fever. 

He tried to lie still, ignoring the sick sucking and pinching pain over his eye. It wasn’t terribly hard. His face was dully throbbing and had been for so long that the leech was almost lost in the cacophony of ache. 

He thought of Brienne and of Qyburn’s words. _What is this woman to you?_

He didn’t know. As children, she was his friend. She was a small, unruly little princess and he, her white knight. They’d shared stories and baths and beds. They’d loved and lost together, been bound by it. 

Then she was taken from him and they became nothing. A memory.

Now, he wasn’t sure. They’d been companions. Perhaps he could call it a tentative friendship, built out of the ashes of their past in necessity. But something had changed, something indefinable. 

He’d kissed her lips, longed for her touch. He’d imagined what it would feel like to have her strong legs wrapped about his waist, pulling his manhood deep into her warmth. He’d kissed her, and held her, and dragged her close to him. He’d lusted for her the way he hadn’t lusted for any woman, save Cersei. His own words to Catelyn Stark echoed in his mind. 

_I’ve only ever been with one woman…I’ve been truer than your Ned ever was._

He’d made himself a liar. Jaime knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had never even been tempted. It is no show of strength when one is not tested. He’d never felt a need to look anywhere else but to Cersei, not since Eel Alley. She’d been soft and beautiful and she loved him. And she told him he loved her, so he did. Cersei was the principal and Jaime was her perfect reflection, her sword hand. He was her lover and the father of her children. 

Now though, he looked and he found himself desirous. He ached for Brienne. She was not a handsome woman, hardly womanly at all. She had the merest suggestion of breasts, only a hint of softness. Her face was broad and plain, her freckles were numerous and her teeth overlarge. Her hair was coarse and pale. He listed all of the unattractive qualities in his mind, from her head to her toes and yet, he couldn’t be swayed. His mind told him she was ungainly and masculine but he found the grace in her movements. His eyes picked out the subtlest sway of her hips. He ignored the broadness of her shoulders to focus on the smooth muscles of her lower back, leading to a taut seat and impossibly long legs. He looked to her face and saw nothing but sapphire eyes, rimmed in gold.

He told himself again, _But she is not Cersei._

And his mind replied with some satisfaction, _and you are not her brother._

“All finished,” said Qyburn, removing the leech from Jaime’s eye with a set of metal pincers. “Now a hot meal, a long bath and a good rest will do for you.” Jaime nodded his thanks and followed his escorts quietly, lost in thought. They found him clothes that suited well enough and led him down a damp, narrow passage that wound down into the bowels of the castle.

Harrenhal’s bathhouse was a dim, steamy, low ceilinged room with large stone tubs set deep in the floor. When they led Jaime, in they found Brienne seated in one of the tubs, furiously scrubbing at her arms.

“Not so hard, sweetling,” he called. “You’ll rub the skin off.”

She dropped her brush and brought large hands up to cover her breasts. They were small, at best, and easily enveloped by her long fingers. He spied two pointy little rosebuds through the steam before she covered herself and he felt himself stir at the sight. 

“What are you doing here?” She demanded. 

“Same as you. Lord Bolton invited us to dinner but he neglected to extend the invitation to my fleas.” Jaime was suddenly conscious of the room’s other occupants. He angrily rounded on his escort. “Leave us,” he said harshly. “My Lady of Tarth does not need the likes of you scum gaping at her teats.” The two men obeyed grudgingly, scurrying away from him when he took a menacing step in their direction. Once they were gone he turned to the handmaiden in the corner, looking bored as she waited for Brienne to finish washing. “You too. Wait without. There’s only one door, guard it if you like. We’re both of us too big to try and shimmy up the chimney.”

Obedience was ingrained deeply in the girl and she followed Jaime’s guard without so much as a blink. When the bathhouse was left to the two of them, he began to undress. The sensation was beyond pleasurable. He longed to peel off the grime that had encased him for weeks. Jaime was aware of Brienne’s eyes on him as he untied the laces at his waist and let his breeches fall to the stone floor. Then he carefully peeled the remains of his filthy tunic from his shoulders and let it drip just as unceremoniously. There were several tubs in the room, he even stood beside an empty one, but he walked along the edge of it and began to lower himself into Brienne’s tub. The tub itself was large enough to hold at least seven men but the minute Jaime’s toe touched the water Brienne scuttled to the corner.

“There are other tubs, my Lord!” She cried helplessly. It was almost amusing. 

“This one suits me well enough. I’m still fevered. If I faint pull me out. I will not be the first Lannister to drown in the bath.” He gingerly immersed himself in the water up to the middle of his chest. The hot water seemed to soak into his bones and he let his eyes slip closed with a low moan. After a few seconds he opened his eyes and saw that Brienne was still huddled in the corner of the tub. She practically cowered before his gaze and he felt a pang of guilt about the thoughts he’d been entertaining about her. She was still a maid, innocent. 

“Have no fear, my Lady. Your thighs are purple and green and I’m in no condition to crawl between them.” She didn’t shift. “Still the shy maiden, even after the brook?” He couldn’t help himself. He wondered if she regretted their fevered kisses, if she longed to forget. He would not let her. “Tell me, what is it you think I haven’t seen?”

He grabbed the brush she dropped earlier and he began to scrub at his skin desultorily with a chunk of thick lye soap. The water around him darkened with caked dirt and filth as he did so. He added more soap to the brush and continued, feeling more and more satisfied as clean, pink skin was revealed. He looked up but Brienne had turned her back to him and continued cleaning herself. He watched, enthralled, as the tight muscles of her back flexed as she moved and her shoulders seemed to hunch lower in an effort to hide herself. 

“Does the sight of my scars distress you so? A shame, I got them for you.” She didn’t say a word or even make a move to indicate she heard him. Jaime scowled. _This will not do._ “You should be pleased. You swore a solemn vow to get me to King’s Landing and we seem to be back on our way.” Still, she said nothing. It was beginning to grate on his nerves. His head swam and he pushed his back hard against the tub. “You’ve saved my life, my sword hand…although perhaps you would have rather I lost it? It was the hand I killed the king with. The very same I used to push the Stark boy from that window. The hand I-” he broke off. What could he say? _The hand I used to slip between my sister’s thighs to make her wet. The hand I used to guide your head to mine as I slid my tongue into your mouth._

“Jaime, I would never-” she started to fill the void but Jaime interrupted. 

“No, you wouldn’t. You never _do_ anything, do you? It’s no wonder Renly died with you guarding him,” he spat bitterly. “You didn’t kill him but you couldn’t save him.” He knew the moment it was out of his mouth that he had said the wrong thing. She told him of Renly on their ride to Harrenhal. In the harsh light of the afternoon, tied like lovers to the back of a dappled mare, she told him of the shadow that killed Renly in the dark of night. How Catelyn Stark and she had fled from the camp. How she dreamed of him dying in her arms. 

Brienne stood in the bath as if he struck her, sending a wave of hot water rippling toward him. She took two steps in his direction, naked as her name day. She looked furious and powerful. _She is the Warrior incarnate_ , he thought as she stood dripping before him. He let his eyes wander over her flesh. Her breasts, no longer bound with cloth, were small but as well-shaped as any breasts he’d seen. Her muscular abdomen gave way to a thick blonde bush at the juncture of her lean legs and when Jaime caught sight of it, he felt himself stir again beneath the water. His head swam again and he gritted his teeth. “Did you fancy him then?” 

“No, I respected him. He would have been a good king.”

“You did,” he said irritably. “Well that’s too bad. You are far too much a man for him, my Lady. He preferred curly-haired little girls like Loras Tyrell.”

“Are you quite finished, Jaime?” Her voice was quiet and dark, as full of heat as the thick air surrounding them. 

“No, I don’t think I am. You know, I knew Renly much better than you. I couldn’t take a step for tripping over the little tulip. His proclivities were the worst kept secret in King’s Landing. It’s a pity the Iron Throne wasn’t made of cocks. They’d have never got him off it.” 

Brienne took another menacing step forward but halted when Jaime stood. He swayed on his feet but refused to fall. He watched as her eyes traced the planes of his body. He was a man with sullied honor, bitter and older than she, but a lion all the same and he had to fight the urge to pounce on her as she looked him over. 

“Shut your mouth, Kingslayer.” Her voice was cold and hard. He bristled. She had not used that name for him since the start of their journey. His mouth set in a hard line as he took a step towards her, aware of the way her eyes widened in the dim. 

“It always comes back to my soiled white cloak. I wore my gold armor that day but…” 

“Gold armor?” Brienne’s voice was far off and faint, although she stood no more than a few feet from him. _I am not myself_ , he thought before he sat back down in the water. Brienne also sat across from him, concern etched into her features. 

“Do you know what wildfire is?”

Brienne, still looking more concerned than she had any right to, nodded stiffly. “Of course I do.”

“The king was mad for it. All the Targaryans were mad for fire. He loved to watch people burn. He burned his enemies. He burned disobedient Hands. He loved to watch as their skin blackened and curled off their bones like so much dry paper. He was a paranoid man, Aerys Targaryan, and he saw enemies everywhere. He had his pyromancers make more wildfire than the realm had ever seen and he had them bury caches of it around the city. Hundreds of thousands of pots, my Lady. Can you imagine? He had them bury it beneath the slums of Flea Bottom, at the Sept of Baelor, he even had them bury a cache beneath the Red Keep.”

Brienne sucked in a breath, her cheeks were red from the heat and he could feel his own breath coming faster and shorter. 

“After dancing griffins lost the Battle of the Bells, Aerys exiled him.” Jaime paused and watched as the water reflected in Brienne’s eyes. She was still listening to him and he couldn’t quite suss out why. Nor did he know why he continued speaking. _Why am I telling this child? Not a child any longer, not little Brienne of Tarth._ Jamie found himself continuing without truly thinking. “He realized Robert was no outlaw lord to be crushed on a whim, but a true threat. A threat the likes of which House Targaryan hadn’t seen since Daemon Blackfyre. He sent Selmy and Jon Darry to round up what they could of Griffin’s men and sent Lewyn Martell to take command of ten thousand Dornishmen coming up the Kingsroad. Rhaegar convinced Aerys to send a raven to my father but no raven returned. That frightened the king even more.” He shook his head, imagining the look on Aerys’ face when Varys told him there would be no raven from Casterly Rock. “Then the day of reckoning came and Robert was marching on the city after his victory at the Trident. Rhaegar was dead and Robert was coming for the throne. When my father showed up with the whole of the Lannister host at his back he promised the king he would defend the city. I knew my father better than that. You do remember my father, don’t you, Brienne?”

She nodded again. The jerky movement dislodged a chunk of hair from her forehead and it fell into her eyes but she ignored it. 

“Tywin Lannister doesn’t fight for the losing side. I counseled the king to keep the gates closed and surrender peacefully when Robert arrived. He did not listen. Not to me, not to Varys. No, he listened to Grand Maester Pycelle, that gray sunken cunt. Pycelle told him to open the gates. ‘House Lannister has always been a true friend to the crown,’ he said. My father sacked the city.”

Brienne’s breath hitched and Jaime refocused his eyes to examine her face. 

“I begged King Aerys again; I told him to surrender peacefully. He told me to bring him my father’s head, if I was no traitor. Lord Rossart was with him; he was the king’s pyromancer. King Aerys told him to burn them all. _Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds_. Tell me, if your precious Renly commanded you to kill your own father and stand by while he burned thousands of men, women and children alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?” His tale went on long enough for the water to cool, though the water was still warm and he felt sweat beading on his upper lip and brow.

“Jaime, I-”

“First, I killed the pyromancer. Then, when the king turned to flee I drove my sword through his back. You see, I don’t think he intended to die. He kept saying burn them all, burn them all. I think he meant to burn with the rest of us and rise out of the ashes: a dragon reborn. I slit his throat to make sure that didn’t happen.”

“Why didn’t you tell Ned Stark? Why didn’t you tell someone? Anyone?”

“I’m telling you. Do you think the honorable Eddard Stark wanted to hear my side? Do you think he cared why I broke my vow? No. But, my lady, it is not Aerys Targaryan I rue, it is Robert. ‘I hear they named you Kingslayer,’ he said to me at his coronation feast. ‘Just don’t think to make it a habit.’ And he laughed and laughed. He tore the realm apart and I am the oathbreaker?”

“King Robert did what he did for love.”

“King Robert did what he did for pride, a cunt and a pretty face. What of what _I_ do for love?”

“Jaime?” Brienne questioned. He laughed harshly. 

“I pushed Bran Stark from a window because he caught me fucking Cersei. You wouldn’t remember how close I was with my sweet sister, would you? You divided us. The whole of the time you were at the Rock. You shared my bed in her place. She hated you for that and I loved you for it.”

Brienne’s face blanched. No small feat, considering the heat. _She has a particularly fair complexion._

“I would have thrown him out that window a hundred times over for her.” Brienne’s mouth hung open and he could see the glaze of tears in her eyes. “And a million times for you. You wouldn’t have let me though. You, you’re so _good_.” Brienne open and closed her mouth as though she would speak, but couldn’t find the words. “What? Have I left you speechless, sweetling? Come, curse me, or kiss me, or call me a liar. ” The woman before him snapped her mouth shut and stood. As she did water cascaded down her body and Jaime felt his own eyes betray him as he watched her. She turned from him then and moved to climb out of the tub. Jaime moved quickly. Thankfully his fatigue disappeared as the water cooled. He managed to grab her thick waist with his hands and tug her to his body. She bucked against his grip and grunted in shock but he held her to him tightly. He pushed her forward, pinning the large woman between him and the edge of the tub. She was strong, maybe even stronger than him, but he had the tactical advantage. 

“Tell me,” he whispered in her ear. “By what right does the wolf judge the lion? _By what right_?” She shivered against him and his cock stirred against her back side. He was intoxicated by her cool, slick skin as she squirmed uncomfortably in his arms. 

“Ser Jaime, let go.” Her voice was firm but he heard a tremor in it. She was frightened of him. _Did you save her from The Bloody Mummers just to take her yourself?_

He released her. He did so suddenly and she fell forward slightly into the stones. She climbed out of the tub but stopped when he called to her. “My lady, I’m sorry. I am a man, old and bitter and alone for too long. I fear jealousy does not suit me particularly well.” Her large shoulders had been hunched forward, but they straightened as she strode forward and grabbed a thick towel with which to wrap herself. It was almost comically small but he held his tongue. 

“You are not alone. You have not been alone.” Her words settled in his chest and warmed him. When she turned to him he was tempted to cover his manhood, which was hard and throbbing from her contact but he didn’t. She should know how she makes him feel. She should see the evidence. She blushed and looked anywhere but at him. 

“No, of course you’re right, I have not. But I have been long without a woman’s touch and I confess my feelings for you are…complicated.” He stepped towards her, intent on also climbing out of the tub but he felt light-headed and stepped wrong, almost stumbling.

“My Lord?” Brienne said but he could hardly hear her. He wanted to take another step but the bathhouse spun around him and he reached out for the side of the tub only to lose his grip on the wet stone. “Jaime!” She shouted, louder this time. He felt the water come up around him but just quickly as he went under she pulled him out. Her skin was cool and clammy from standing out of the tub as she pulled him gently up. She was strong but always gentle with him. _Gentler than Cersei._

The next thing he knew, he was laying on the damp floor with Brienne, Qyburn and his guards all staring down at him and looking concerned.

“The heat will do that to a fevered man and he’s malnourished.” Qyburn tutted as he stared.

“What should we do with him?” One of the guards asked. He wasn’t sure which one. He hadn’t bothered to learn their names. 

“Clean him, clothe him and carry him to Kingspyre if need be. Lord Bolton wishes to sup with him and the time is growing short. I’ll bring licorice steeped in vinegar with honey, and cloves to help bring down the fever.” 

Jaime almost sat up to insist that he could do it himself but Brienne placed a hand on his chest. She was wrapped in a wet towel that was much too small to cover her properly but she didn’t seem to care when she spoke. 

“Bring me a basin of cool water and clean garb for him,” she said to them. And he gratefully leaned back down to the hand that waited to rest behind his head. “I’ll see that he’s cleaned and dressed.” 

“Thank you, my Lady.” 

She did not smile when she looked at him, nor did she frown. She merely nodded, her expression thoughtful and her eyes dark. Sad. “Ser,” was her only reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, questions, concerns and criticism are all very welcome!


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took a while but thank you for sticking with me guys...presuming you do. :) A big thanks to my beta _ValyrianSteel_ , who takes the time out of a very busy schedule to help me with this story! I am ever in her debt and I promise, I _always_ pay my debts.

Jaime could walk without assistance. He knew if he let go of her arm he wouldn’t topple over, wouldn’t even teeter. Yet he kept his arm entwined with hers, using her considerable height and strength to balance him as they headed towards the unknown. The rose-dyed silk was soft beneath his fingers but the muscle underneath was firm. His savior was uncomfortable in the ill-fitting dress Qyburn brought for her but she did not falter beneath his weight. The dress had a hideous, moth eaten fur collar and the ties across her small chest immodestly exposed what little bust she had. Brienne wore it with little grace but much perseverance. To many she would look like a mockery of womanhood but to Jaime she looked every inch a knight. 

He may have fainted from fever, and almost drowned, but Brienne had pulled him out quick enough. Jaime fully recovered not long after being fed Qyburn’s bitter tasting concoction and Brienne’s deft work with a cool, damp cloth on his warm skin. He knew, without doubt, that he could have washed himself as well. He could have managed it easily, but he let her drag the cloth over his face and neck all the same. He let her pour water down his arms and over his back. He just squeezed his eyes shut and reveled in her long fingers kneading his scalp, and running through his hair, as she tipped a basin of water over his head. He sat still when she trimmed his beard. He knew he could have dressed himself but he let her pull the roughspun over his shoulders and he let her tie up his shirt and do up his breeches. He even let Brienne pull on his boots for him and lace them. It was wrong, but he was well acquainted with wrongdoing. 

She’d only left him long enough to dress herself, in that heinous gown, behind a thick screen in the corner of his small room. Her own room was not far off, only across the corridor, but Jaime held out hope that perhaps she wouldn’t mind sharing. Just for the duration of their stay in that cursed place. With that in mind he’d asked Qyburn to bring her gown to his room, much to Brienne’s chagrin, ensuring they would remain together at least until they finished readying themselves for dinner. He knew there was little chance of spending time alone with her after, even if it was only the room they’d be sharing and not a bed. He desperately wanted her company, and her warmth, back. Unfortunately, Jaime wasn’t sure he was going to get it. After she’s washed him and dressed him and even after dressing herself, she remained aloof. He couldn’t blame her. He’d never told anyone about Aerys or about his relationship with his sweet sister, though his brother guessed. In one evening he’d revealed both to Brienne. He had given her all the horrible truth of his life in one fell swoop.

_Like a crossbow bolt to the chest._

And she had been, understandably, stricken. The look on her face, the shock and confusion, the pain he saw etched there when she turned away from him, was more than he could handle. He’d desperately clung to her, begged her with all the strength in his arms not to leave him. He knew no other way. 

With Cersei there would be small beating fists that would give way to clenching hands and hot lips and mouths and teeth. Cersei never came to him, never once took a step towards him. He always went to her, held her. Cersei would give, but he had to ask. Not so with Brienne; she’d turned to stone in his arms. When he released her, she remained cold. It stung him. She bathed him, clothed him, and let him hang on her arm, but she did not speak to him. 

Brienne led him carefully into a vast hall, draughty and grey. It was long, even longer than the throne room in King’s Landing; a testament to Lord Harren’s arrogance. The chill in the hall was bone deep and although there were countless hearths along the walls, one every ten feet in Jaime’s estimation, all were dark. There was only one fire, directly behind the Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton. He sat before it, back lit with flame, at the end of the hall. It made for a rather menacing silhouette. 

Upon closer inspection, Lord Bolton was only attended by a cupbearer and was modestly dressed in roughspun and a leather jerkin. The jerkin had an embossing of House Bolton’s gruesome sigil in the center. 

“My Lord,” said Brienne from Jaime’s left, acknowledging their captor in a way Jaime wouldn’t. Lord Bolton was a smallish man, balding, with pale eyes and bloodless cheeks. When he spoke his voice was soft, softer even that it had been in the yard. 

“I am glad you are well enough to attend me, Ser. My Lady, do be seated.” Bolton gestured to the chairs opposite him at the long table and they sat resolutely. Jaime was prepared to hear the worst and when Brienne sat beside him, he thought she looked resigned as well. Jaime didn’t tell her that he wasn’t intending to die there. Or by the hands of the Young Wolf. No. If Roose Bolton intended to send him back to Robb Stark, Jaime would be gone by morning, as sure as the sun would rise. And Brienne would be with him, whether she willed it or no. He wondered briefly if perhaps her dour mood had more to do with his pathetic half-confession as opposed to the possibility of not completing her mission to return him to King’s Landing. 

Yet she was so honorable, so just. He couldn’t imagine her thoughts were anything like his own. He was sure she would be thinking of her vows and the horrible possibility of not fulfilling an oath. Especially an oath she’d sworn to Catelyn Stark, whom Brienne seemed to greatly admire. _Too greatly._ Catelyn Stark had wrongfully jailed his brother and he’d never been terribly fond of the Tully’s to begin with. _Cold fish, every one of them._ The woman left a bad taste in his mouth. 

He examined the contents of the table and what he saw there did nothing to remove the bitter taste of his own thoughts from his palate. It was a simple spread of cheese, cold meat, bread, and wine set out for them. Nothing particularly bad but nothing particularly good either. Not that it mattered. Whatever went into Jaime’s mouth would taste dull and unpleasant until he knew what Bolton had planned for them.

“Do you take red or white?” Lord Bolton asked as they sat. “They are of an indifferent vintage I’m afraid, the last dregs of Lady Whent’s wine cellars.” 

“White is for the Stark’s,” Jaime quipped out of habit. “I’ll have the red like a good Lannister.” 

Bolton’s cupbearer, Elmer the man called him, poured Jaime’s wine and turned to Brienne.

“Can I suppose you’ll take red as well then, my Lady?” Bolton asked her, gesturing for Elmer to fill her glass as well but she quickly placed her hand over the top. 

Brienne would have to have been blind not to notice the implication that her allegiance may have changed. Jaime had almost smirked. He had almost nodded, happily and answered for her. _Why yes, Lord Bolton, she will have red. Like a good Lannister._

“I would prefer water,” she said. When Elmer poured her water and hippocras for his Lord, Bolton waved him off. 

“My Lady,” Jaime said turning to her, “you must know how strange that seems to other people.” 

“I was not aware, Ser.” She replied coolly. 

Lord Bolton picked a prune off a tray, seemingly ignoring them, and ate it methodically. Jaime cringed, unconvinced by Lord Bolton’s feigned ignorance.

“You should try one, Ser Jaime, they are quite sweet and help to move the bowels. These prunes were a gift to me from Lord Vargo.”

“Vargo Hoat is no lord and my bowels move fine. I’m not as interested in your prunes as I am in your intentions, my Lord.” Jaime could see that Roose Bolton was not a man to be taken lightly. He was too calm, too calculating. Jaime had known men like Roose Bolton in his lifetime. They had no passion. No rage. No hot blood beneath their skin. Those dead men were dangerous. 

“Regarding you?” The Lord before them asked thoughtfully as he chewed. 

“Regarding myself, yes, and the Lady Brienne.” Jaime looked over at Brienne as he spoke but she refused to look his way, choosing to work on her meat instead. 

“You are a perilous prize, Ser. You sow dissension wherever you go it seems, even in my happy house of Harrenhal and at Riverrun as well. Did you know Edmure Tully has offered one thousand gold dragons for your return?”

_That’s all?_ “My father will pay ten times that much.”

“Yes, I imagine he will. Ten thousand gold dragons is a formidable sum but there are other offers to consider. Lord Karstark has offered the hand of his daughter to the man who brings him your head. Fortunately I have no need of a wife. I wed Walda Frey when I was at the Twins.”

“Fair Walda?” Jaime asked nonchalantly as he tore a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table in front of him. 

“Fat Walda. My bride’s weight in silver as a dowry was a generous offer. I chose accordingly. But there is still Robb Stark to consider.” His voice was a whisper in the hall but Jaime hung on every word, as he was surely meant to. “If King Robb finds out I had you and then lost you it’ll be my head on a pike, won’t it? I should send you back to him.”

“You should. But instead you’re sitting here, offering me your prunes. Why waste them on a dead man?” Jaime picked up his knife and sliced into the meat on his plate.

“Wars cost money and the Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts.”

“No, perhaps not. You, I am told, are giving Harrenhal to Vargo Hoat.” The thought of _Lord Vargo_ made Jaime sick and furious. 

“It was his price and I have no designs on Harrenhal. I must take my leave in any case, for the Twins. Edmure Tully is to wed Roslin Frey.”

“This is the betrayal your men spoke of? Lord Edmure weds in place of Robb Stark?” Brienne asked hesitantly. 

“It is, my Lady.” He casually licked one of his fingers and sliced a piece of cheese, offering a piece to Brienne and Jaime in turn which neither of them took. “He took to wife some Lord’s daughter of the Westerlands. Perhaps you know the girl, Ser Jaime. Her name is Jeyne Westerling I believe. She is the daughter of one of your father’s bannermen, after all.

“My father has many bannermen and they have many daughters. I assure you, Lord Bolton, I do not know her and if at any point I did know her, I don’t care enough to remember. How does Lord Walder feel about dining on trout in place of wolf?” 

“Trout is a fine meal.” Roose Bolton gave the smallest of smiles.

“A tasty supper, true. It is a better match than Walder Frey has managed for any of his other numerous children.” Jaime let out a hollow laugh and pulled off another piece of bread.

“And now we come to what must be done with you.”

“You know who will pay the most for me, or make you pay the most from sending me back north for a summary execution.”

“Indeed. The safest thing for me to do, perhaps, is to kill you both and burn the bodies.” Lord Bolton picked up another prune with his bony fingers and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoroughly. 

Jaime saw Brienne reach for her knife, blunt as it was, out of the corner of his eye, but he put his hand over hers to still the action. Her left his fingers there, resting over hers casually, as he continued talking. The point of the knife was rounded, and dull, but he was sure she could put it through Lord Bolton’s eye all the same. He looked briefly at the guards in the room. 

_Close yes, but they might as well be half a league away if they wished to save their Lord. No_ , he thought, _Roose Bolton would be dead…but so too would we._

When Jaime gave his attention back to his host he noticed Bolton’s eyes flit briefly to their joined hands, cataloguing Jaime’s movement and Brienne’s lack of reaction. He squeezed but did not let go. Bolton smiled a small smile across from them that made Jaime’s skin crawl. He knew he had shown a weakness to the Lord of the Dreadfort but he did not know yet what the consequence would be. Jaime knew that he and Brienne would be scrutinized especially closely after what was said about them when they arrived. Lord Bolton’s men had not yet ceased in calling her _Kingslayer’s Whore_. Now he had proved, at least somewhat, that the title was not entirely unfounded. Certainly she was no whore, especially not his, but their relationship was not entirely innocent. Jaime ignored that train of thought in favor of focusing on Bolton.

“It would be, if you honestly thought my father wouldn’t find out about it.” His name was the only card he had to play. He hated it. He was never good with politics. What he would have given for a piece of fine steel with which to run through the plotting lord that was sitting before them. 

“You are right of course. Lannister friendship could mean much in these trying times.”

“My Lord,” Brienne said, “I serve Lady Catelyn and she charged me with the return of Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing in exchange for her daughters. It would be in service of your king, not the Lannisters.” 

Her naiveté was astounding. The boy, it seemed, had won the war on the field, but lost it in the bedchamber. _Poor fool_. And Roose Bolton, too, was aware. If Jaime wasn’t entirely mistaken that little marriage difficulty might lead to the loss of Walder Frey’s men and Roose Bolton was married to a Frey. He also contributed a great many men to Robb Stark’s fledging army and if the Stark boy lost Frey’s men and Bolton’s, as well as perhaps the Karstarks considering that mention of returning Jaime’s head, then he would have no army at all. Jaime supposed though, that the most obvious evidence of Roose Bolton’s potential treachery was that he had not immediately fed Jaime to the wolves. No. He had Jaime’s wounds tended, had him bathed and clothed and now fed. He was a hostage, not a prisoner and that did not bode well for Robb Stark.

“Lord Edmure’s reward for Jaime Lannister’s head spoke of an escape, not an exchange of prisoners, and when Robb Stark left Harrenhal his mother was his prisoner. She would be dead for treason if she weren’t his mother; a treason of which you are also guilty.”

Brienne stood and Jaime stood with her. He grabbed her arm, in another unwilling show for Lord Bolton of his affection for her, and urged her to sit. “Brienne, sit and eat. Please.” She looked at him then, finally, and he pleaded with his eyes for her to trust him. 

She sat and he allowed himself to relax back into his seat as well.

“My Lady, perhaps it will please you that I intend to send Ser Jaime on as you and Lady Stark desire.” Jaime released a breath and held in the grin that threatened to break across his face. In the end he couldn’t help but smile. _Traitor_.

“You would send us on, my Lord? That is good, I thank you.” Her relief was palpable and Jaime reached for the pitcher of wine. He would explain the finer points of Lord Bolton’s dealings with her once they were well on their way from Harrenhal. He was sure he could convince her to speak with him again by then. 

“My Lady, let our journey continue without further impediment.” He reached over and poured red into her glass. _Oh yes, Lannister red for you, my Lady._

“I am afraid you misunderstand me. You will not be going, Lady Brienne. I cannot deprive Lord Vargo of both his prizes; it would be unconscionable. Jaime will continue on to King’s Landing with an escort of my men, led by Walton Steelshanks. You will remain at Harrenhal to await word of your ransom. A gentle sentence for your treasons. If I were you, my Lady, I would worry less about our Ser Jaime and the Stark girls and more about those sapphires mines on Tarth.”

Jaime’s hand froze clutching the pitcher over his wine glass. _No. Not again._

“I am afraid I must insist she return with me,” he said. Jaime continued to pour and set the pitcher down carefully so as to hide the shaking of his hand. 

Jaime _hated_ politics. 

He never understood the backstabbing and the whispers, not like his father. Not like Tyrion and Cersei. He preferred to stab men in the front. He wanted them to see it coming. It had never occurred to him that they might be split up. He felt foolish for assuming that she would never be apart from him again. 

Roose Bolton steepled his fingers and his mouth flattened, almost imperceptibly, in irritation. “I’m afraid you are in no position to insist.”

“And yet I do.” Jaime leaned back in his chair and shot the Lord of the Dreadfort a smile. He refused to be beaten by this bloodless lord. 

“My Lord, Lady Catelyn entrusted me with the safe keeping of her daughters. I must insist as well. Those girls are my charges.” 

Jaime nodded at his companion before regarding Lord Bolton again. “My Lady is correct, this vow cannot be entrusted to an oathbreaker such as myself.”

Roose Bolton chuckled darkly. That may be true, but did I not mention it before? My pardon Lady Brienne, but Lady Catelyn’s daughters are quite well taken care of. The eldest, Sansa, was recently married to your Ser Jaime’s brother. It seems they’ve made her a Lannister. As for Arya Stark, she is to be sent from King’s Landing in less than a fortnight to be wed to some northern bastard.” 

“Sansa wed? To Tyrion?” Her voice was small and breathy with shock. In truth Jaime was just as surprised but he was better at hiding it. He wondered at how his brother must being feeling at that moment, married to innocent little Sansa Stark. The girl couldn’t have been more than ten and four on her wedding day. Not Sansa Stark, Sansa Lannister. 

“ _Lord_ Tyrion,” Bolton corrected her. “According to the ravens we received from King’s Landing it would have taken place just today. Only the Gods can part them now.”

“None of this concerns me, Lord Bolton. Vargo Hoat is welcome to Harren’s cursed castle and my father may have secured Sansa for my brother, but Arya Stark should be returned to her mother. And if she were married to Lancel or Martin or any other Lannister I would still refuse to leave without the Lady Brienne. Her father was my mother’s family, as you may know. The Lady Brienne and I are well acquainted and I’ll not abandon her to your dogs.” Jaime thrust his dull, supper knife into the table. He saw the guards move from their posts and Brienne stiffened beside him. She must have finally felt the teeth of the steel trap Roose Bolton had set beginning to close around them. 

Lord Bolton held his hand up to stall the progress of his guards. He observed them carefully, his face emotionless and critical. Jaime never wavered; he had faced down worse. 

“How gallant of you, Ser Jaime,” Lord Bolton finally said, pushing back from the table. “Lady Brienne shall go with you to King’s Landing.”

Jaime nodded with satisfaction. He waited a beat before tugging on Brienne’s wrist so that her hand bumped into her cup and, eventually, grasped it. “Yes,” he said, raising his glass in a salute which she half-heartedly returned. “She will.” 

Later that evening Jaime was standing anxiously, waiting in the corridor between his room and hers. He knocked impatiently for a second time. “Brienne,” he whispered into the thick wood with his face pressed against her door. 

Her door shuddered against his cheek and he backed up as it opened a crack. Her freckled face blinked out into the darkness. “What-what are you doing here?” 

“I just wanted to speak with you. To say thank you. I thought I would sneak into your room this time. I must say, you received a much warmer welcome than you’re giving me, my Lady.” 

“I’m sorry, Ser, it is I who should be thanking you” He waved her off and gestured to the doorway.

“No, it was nothing,” he replied. 

“Oh,” she stuttered and stepped back, opening the door wide enough for him to squeeze by her. 

“I didn’t expect you.”

He stepped through the doorway and stopped, turning to face her. Her room was small and dimly lit by a single candle. He hovered awkwardly by her moderately sized bed. “And why _would_ you?”

She closed the door as he spoke but did not face him. Her head was bowed and her straw colored hair curled gently against her neck. She wore a night gown much too short and he couldn’t help but eye the vast expanse of exposed muscle and flesh of her legs. Her feet were bare, he noticed. _Perhaps they couldn’t find slippers large enough?_

“Jaime,” she whispered into the dim and he felt his body shiver in response. She took a deep breath, collected herself, and faced him. He swallowed hard. 

“I seem to have interrupted you,” he said with a gesture to the corner of the room.

The sole source of light, a flickering candle, was on a large black wood table, dancing merrily and flickering off the walls. The candle sat beside multiple sheets of paper and an ink pot, and there was also a smallish chair pushed out. Jaime forced his eyes to notice the table and papers and the fresh rushes on the floor, the flickering light and the damp of the stone. He tried to picture Brienne seated in the chair looking large and uncomfortably hunched while she wrote. He willed his mind to focus on anything that wasn’t the way the light hit her from behind, coming through her gown and making the thin fabric glow. He made himself look into her face, and at her deep blue eyes, instead of letting his gaze coast along her black silhouette beneath the linen. She looked absurd in the small, delicate garment. It was loose in the chest and dipped low, exposing the tops of her small breasts, but was tight in the shoulders and much too short. It was a simple shift, something too plain for Cersei to have worn, but somehow Brienne made him long to run his hands over it. 

_No_. 

“I only came to thank you for your care and to apologize for my behavior. I frightened you, but I did not mean to. I’ll not keep you any longer, my Lady.” She was simply stared at him, not moving, no expression on her face. The only way he knew she was alive was the red of her cheeks and neck, the flush of her chest and the heave of her breast. He bowed to her and took a step towards the door but her words stopped him. 

“Do you think I fright so easily, Ser?” Jaime raised his face to hers and she was still staring at him but her eyes, the sapphires that they were, glittered as she narrowed them at him. “After The Bloody Mummers, you think some harsh truths will cow me?” 

“I meant no offense, my Lady. I came only to beg forgiveness for my behavior. I acted ignobly; I was wrong.” She bit her lip and he watched her study him. He loved watching her think, watching as the wheels turned in her mind as she decided what to do next. Unlike him she often thought before acting. It comforted him to know her every action, especially regarding him, was deliberate. 

“Did you lie?”

“What? No, of course I didn’t lie. How could you think that?”

“I don’t,” she replied frostily. “I was going to say that if you did not lie, then you have not wronged me.”

His mind brought back the feel of her slick skin against his aching cock, the way her muscles flexed beneath his palms as she struggled, the taste of her hair in his mouth. He cringed and closed his eyes. “I remember it differently. I dishonored you, Brienne. I treated you unbefittingly for a lady of your station.”

She almost smiled. He saw the softening muscles as they gave way for her lips to turn the slightest bit upward before she ducked her head. “You and I remember a great many things differently, Ser.”

“Perhaps. I’m curious about the brook. How do you remember that?” He couldn’t believe the words that slipped through his lips. She looked up, her wide mouth open, and gave a soft gasp. “Please, tell me, because I can’t stop remembering.” Jaime felt a rasping laugh escape his throat. _Why do I say these things?_ He couldn’t believe the things he said in her presence, as though she ripped the truth from him with some dark art, like Maggy the Toad. He realized he must have gone mad, grasping at the affection of this homely woman, this ghost from his childhood, and telling her his secrets. But the woman before him looked less like the homely, warrior woman he was familiar with and more like the maid. She looked more like an innocent child in a too small nightdress, skittish and nervous before a predator. It drove him to distraction. 

“Jaime, I-” She took one halting step in his direction and that was all it took to drive him into action. He moved faster and surer than her, crossing the room in less time than it took her to finish her sentence. Jaime wrapped his arms around her thick waist and pulled her flush against his body. Her heart hammered against his chest as she tilted her head just the smallest bit down, to meet his lips. The kiss was gentle, soft. It was Brienne, in a kiss. The kiss he gave back to her was nothing like the gentle flutter of lips she gifted to him. It was hungry and needy and fierce. He poured himself into her with every scrape of teeth and press of skin. 

He pressed her back, and back, in the same way she’d pressed him into the brook. Soon enough, like he had, Brienne lost her footing when he trapped her between his body and the table she’d been writing on. He lifted his right hand, burying it in her hair and tugging her head back so he could drag hot kisses down the column of her extraordinarily long neck. He could hear her whispering his name in the periphery of his mind, “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime.” She kissed his ear, continuing her litany and fueling his fervor.

Her skin was slick and hot beneath his lips and he felt his heart beating in time with her pulse against his mouth. He fumbled at his laces with his left hand, whilst guiding her onto the table with his body. Brienne didn’t need the help, she was tall enough to slide easily back and he reveled in the feel of her long fingers gripping at his sides and clutching at his hair. He shoved his breeches down and grabbed her hips, pulling her forward. With a feral smirk he tangled his fist in her hem and jerked it up her thighs. Jaime spread her pale legs with his knees and stepped between them. He let out a harsh sigh as he pressed his cock against her smallclothes and Brienne gasped into the air above her head and arched into him. 

Jaime snapped his eyes open and examined the woman beneath him as he thrust himself against her again. She whimpered, her head thrown back, and he yanked at her collar to expose her breasts to his mouth. He bent his head to nip at the newly bared bud and smiled around it when she grunted above him. His left hand slipped between them and he dragged his finger along the wet fabric of her small clothes. When he tore them away he chanced a glance down to see the blond bush he’d glimpsed in the tubs. He edged forward, feeling the heat from between her legs calling to him. 

“Jaime,” she said breathily from above him.

His head whipped up. The look on her face froze his fevered pace. She tentatively reached out her fingertips to gently brush against his head and tucked a blond lock of hair behind his ear. Jaime gasped out her name and pressed his face into her palm. “Brienne, seven hells.” He dropped his face from her hand and into her neck, losing himself in the feel of her flesh and thrusting roughly forward.

“Jaime, stop.”

He halted, one hand digging into her side, the other steadying him on the table. He felt the dull scratch of her bush against his abdomen, the swollen head of Jaime’s cock was throbbing just past her first ring of tightness. He longed to sink himself into her completely but her hand was on his chest, holding him in place. “I can’t. I’ve never-” She froze, her stuttering coming to an abrupt halt and collected herself, then struggled slightly to sit up, pushing him away and out of her. She squared her shoulders and met his eyes. “I am the _Maid_ of Tarth,” she said firmly. 

“Ah,” he said, “a Lady’s honor is between her legs.” He looked down between them and the sight of his manhood so close to her center was maddening. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back to him. “But you are a knight,” he whispered in her ear until she trembled, “your honor is your vow, not your maidenhead.”

Brienne stiffened. He eased his face back to observe her reaction. He was surprised to see her thick mouth in a flat line. “I am not a knight, nor am I likely to be one. I am a woman, Jaime, _you_ are a knight. And your honor belongs under a white cloak, or have you forgotten? A knight of the Kingsguard lies with no women, perhaps Cersei…” Her voice trailed off. He wasn’t sure what she intended to say but he saw the telltale flicker of revulsion slide across her face at the thought of his twin. 

Cersei.

The name curled into his ear like a poison, twisting deep into his heart like a blade. _Cersei. My sweet sister, my lover, my mirror._ Jaime squeezed his eyes shut and stumbled back from Brienne, who folded her legs into her body and held them to her chest. _How did I forget? How could I?_

“I hadn’t thought,” he started, raising his green eyes to her blue ones, trying to piece together the shattered thoughts in his mind into something she could understand. “I hadn’t thought. How could I? I’m-” 

“Please leave, Ser Jaime.” Her voice was steady but her face looked crumpled with misery.

“Brienne, no, I-” He took a shaky step forward and reached out to her but she jerked away from him. 

“Please.” 

He stopped and let his arm drop to his side. Jaime quickly laced up his breeches, pushing his then soft member back into place and fled from her bedroom. As he lay in bed, chasing sleep, he tried not to think of the lonely girl across the corridor or his sweet sister in King’s Landing.

That night he dreamed of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I, thus far, have up to chapter 15 outlined and am happy to say this story will continue beyond that. As always questions, comments and criticism are more than welcome.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams and reflections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! I am so SORRY that this took so long. Life just sort of happened for me and my beta (dedicated to you V, thanks for the help and see you next chapter!) and I spent four days in Dover, De with no wifi at a music festival-so I haven't been able to update. Thankfully I'm working on chapter 10 and the fabulous _ssstrychnine_ agreed to give this a look over before I posted. That being said, all mistakes and missteps are mine. Be kind.

“Your face is healing well,” the kindly man spoke as he capped the jar in his hand. He looked appraisingly at Jaime and nodded. “Though there will be some scarring.” Qyburn had been a daily companion of Jaime’s since his arrival at Harrenhal. The once maester insisted with the excuse of observing his fever. 

“I’m no stranger to scars,” Jaime replied. His voice was soft, the room was small and there was no need to expend energy raising his voice. He felt drained. 

Brienne and he hadn’t seen each other in three days and the toll it took surprised him. After his poor excuse for an apology and even poorer attempt at a sudden and ill-advised courtship he thought he would be glad to be rid of her. The accusatory look in her eyes at their last meeting and his embarrassment should have been enough to keep him in his bedchamber for a week but it wasn’t. He found himself wandering the tangle of mangled corridors and halls in the afternoon and the evening, just waiting for her. He took two long bathes in as many days hoping that she would wander in like that first night. At first he’d fought with himself over whether or not to catch her in her own bedchamber and try to apologize again for his lack of control. In the end he decided against it. He knew himself better than that. He knew he wouldn’t be able to give her the distance she deserved. The distance she so obviously wanted. Brienne did something to him that he couldn’t quite define and when he was in her presence he couldn’t control himself. He’d opened his mouth, and his breeches, when both should have stayed firmly sealed.

It made Jaime angry. 

Regardless of their history, the homely girl had no right to inspire him to feel so ridiculous. He didn’t understand it and until he did, he decided to strengthen his resolve not to see her. The days were easy, Jaime steadfastly focused on Cersei and getting back to King’s Landing. He had a _real_ woman waiting for him at the Red Keep. He told himself that he aimlessly strolled about Harrenhal to relieve boredom, not in hopes of catching a glimpse of pale hair or rose-dyed silk. It was the nights that were more difficult. His mind would drift through the warrens of his memories and imagination in the dark, the same way he himself wandered the maze of Harrenhal’s passages and rooms by the light of the day. Where Jaime failed to catch sight of Brienne during his daily meanderings, his mind succeeded in the black of his bedchamber. He was ever plagued with hazy images of her beneath him, not armed or armoured but naked, heaving in ragged breathes and writhing, clutching and climaxing. The luscious and long golden locks, gripped between his fingers, became short, fine and pale in his dreams. Every night, without fail, green eyes bled into blue. He would wake sweating and hard and gritting his teeth in fury. He still wanted her.

It was maddening.

“Your fever has broken as well, you should be well enough to depart as early as the morning. I’ll be travelling with you and Lady Brienne to King’s Landing with Steelshanks and his men. Lord Vargo has little need of me and Lord Bolton would prefer you to be well looked after.”

“Good.” Jaime knew first-hand how dangerous it would be to remain in the company of Vargo Hoat for any period of time and Qyburn had taken care of Jaime’s and Brienne’s injuries well. He didn’t deserve to spend any longer stitching up stumps for the Brave Companions and saving the lives of Vargo Hoat’s many captives only to watch them be tortured to death. 

“If I might be permitted to say, Ser, are you not glad to be returning to King’s Landing?” Qyburn came to stand beside Jaime and he let his eyes refocus on the smallish man before him. 

“Forgive me if I’m not particularly inclined to gladness at the moment.” Qyburn didn’t recoil at his acerbic reply, but merely regarded Jaime with a tilt of his head.

“Your _protector_ is in low spirits as well.”

Jaime put his elbows onto his knees, resting his weight there, and leaned forward. He had to incline his head to meet Qyburn’s eyes. “You’ve seen Brienne?” 

“I needs must tend to that wound on her leg, and _Lady_ Brienne had extensive bruising on her ribs.” Jaime opened his mouth but Qyburn continued, holding up his hand. “She is healing well, Ser Jaime. Very well.”

Jaime leaned back in relief. “You said she was in low spirits, what did you mean?”

Qyburn pursed his lips in thought. “She has spoken with me very little, you understand, but when I saw her this afternoon she was more somber than when I saw her last. I was concerned that perhaps her wounds were giving her trouble but she is healthy as an aurochs. One must then assume that an affliction of the mind is the culprit.” 

The old man had no idea. Jaime couldn’t imagine how she felt. She had no love for Cersei, so he didn’t think she felt guilty as he did, but she was surely ashamed. He was the Kingslayer, a man who fathered children on his sister and broke his vows, and she had parted her strong, white thighs for him. He shivered at the memory. In that moment he was sure that she hadn’t seen herself as he saw her. She would see a wanton woman, a woman disgraced by lust and desire. He was everything her septa’s had warned her about and yet she’d trusted him, invited him in. That wasn’t what he saw. He saw a maiden in love, a maiden loved. Jaime groaned at his sentimentality. Sure, he’d loved her, once. Perhaps he still did, but he wasn’t _in_ love with her. “Yes, well did you see what they’re making her wear?” He stood up abruptly, rubbing his hands together. “If you’re quite finished, I think I’ll go down to the yard and beat someone bloody.”

“She seemed rather concerned for your well-being, ser, and yet she was unaware of your progress. You may want to pay her a visit.” _A Meddler_. 

Jaime wondered briefly if all old men meddled. It seemed to be a favorite pastime of maester Pycelle, his uncle Kevan, and his father. Truly though, what his father did could never be classed as mere meddling. Meddling was to the actions of Tywin Lannister, what a light rain was to the squalls that battered the walls of Storm’s End. He silently added Qyburn to that list. _At least Qyburn is well-meaning_. 

“She won’t see me,” he deadpanned. Qyburn lifted his thick, gray eyebrow at him and Jaime instantly felt chastised. The man reminded him of some little girl’s favorite grandfather, even as he seemed to look at Jaime with thinly veiled skepticism. “I promise you, I’ve upset the girl and she is going to need time. I know her better than you, old man.” 

“What is this woman to you?” His kind face was pinched and examining him steadily as he repeated the same question he’d asked Jaime when they’d first met.

“I told you.”

“You lied,” Qyburn countered, smiling. Jaime felt himself tense under the man’s gaze. “You told me she was your protector but she is no guard dog. She has a different story.”

“Does she?” Jaime leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Indeed. She was kind enough to recount for me a story whilst I examined her leg, I fear I make her somewhat uncomfortable and I find it helps to talk. I asked her about your history, how she came to be in your service. It seems she knew you when you were both quite young. She told of an injury you sustained on horseback.”

Jaime remembered the incident vaguely. He’d fallen from the saddle while out with Galladon one sunny afternoon. At least, he thought it was summer. It was always summer in Jaime’s memories of Galladon and his little sister. The accident had less to do with the horse and more to do with Jaime staying up too late the night before and falling asleep in the saddle. It was nothing more than a few cuts and bruises, to his recollection, but he’d stayed abed as long as possible, milking his fall for all it was worth. Cersei, Brienne and Galladon had formed a ceaseless parade of well-wishing, often sneaking off to amuse him during the long afternoons. Cersei and Galladon though were busy with maesters and lessons and other such nonsense youths are meant to do. They hardly managed to get away, but it was no matter, he had Brienne to entertain him. She would come in and he would help her with her letters, what little help he could offer anyway. She was a remarkable reader, much better than he’d been at that age. Or, when he managed to divert her from her studies, they would fight with play swords. Jaime would be the gallant knight, protecting her from all manner of strange beasts but Brienne nearly always tired of that. Instead she too was a knight and they would dual over this honor or that slight. He found himself very often laughing loudly and letting her win. That was what eventually got him caught. Casterly Rock’s maester had found him and Brienne laughing and wrestling on Jaime’s rug beside his bed, in a warm patch of late afternoon sunlight, not four days after his accident. He was in his bedclothes and she was in a pair of his breeches, which were much too big on her, and wearing one of his shirts. She’d changed because she was a knight and knights did _not_ wear dresses.

Tywin was furious, or so his letter said. He could no longer remember what the letter said but could picture Galladon quite clearly. He remembered how his friend had laughed when Jaime had told him the story and read for him the letter from King’s Landing.

“We were raised together for a time, a short time. Very long ago.” He laughed mirthlessly at how wistful he sounded before leaving the chainless maester behind. 

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. 

Dull thuds echoed in the yard as Jaime hacked at the wooden practice dummy.

Lunge. Turn. Strike. 

He went through the motions as he thought of his morning and the last few days. He grew tired of Harrenhal. Tired of the misshapen walls, twisted stone, the dull occupants and most of all, he tired of the loneliness. Jaime grinned savagely when he struck the training dummy before him, the wooden post giving a satisfying ‘crack’ from the force of the blow. It was no matter if he ruined the only dummy in the yard, he would be leaving soon and it filled Jaime with a singular joy.

“You’ll break that,” came a gruff voice from over his shoulder. 

Jaime grunted in response to the other man in the yard besides himself. He was one of Steelshanks’ brawny men. He had thick black hair, dark eyes, and Jaime noticed a habit of stopping his cuts short. Flowstone yard was large and open at the base of the wailing tower. It was the perfect place to hear the wind that buffeted the tower whistling through the warped stone. There was a covered gallery as well, overlooking the yard, that was blissfully empty. Jaime had no desire for an audience. 

The man with the short swing left the yard, grumbling a stilted “Pardon me” as he did. Jaime turned to watch his departure, thinking perhaps the man had been speaking to him but was surprised to find the intended recipient standing beneath the arched entrance with a startled look on her frozen features. 

“My lady, I thought you were determined to hide from me,” he said, striding forward to face her. He bowed stiffly. She was no longer in the hideous dress she’d been in for their dinner. He did not miss it. Instead she wore better fitting leather breeches, boots and a dark, russet colored shirt. He recognized the color and realized she must have, somehow, gotten some of her own clothes back. The color of the shirt contrasted against her eyes, making them look impossibly bluer. Like the summer sky. She was frowning at him. “Come, speak. Do you wish for me to pretend not to have seen you?” He let his voice drop. “Have I fallen so far in your estimation that I no longer merit a response?”

“I have not been hiding from you.” 

_Liar_.

“Ahh, you deny it?”

“I do, I have not been hiding from you. You could have sought me out, had you the urge.” 

If she only knew the urges he had. He shut his eyes against the onslaught of jumbled fantasies and memories that swirled in his brain. When he opened them again he was half-hard and he knew his pupils would be blown from the images but he hoped she wouldn’t realize. She was naïve enough to miss the signs, he suspected.

“You deny that you hid from me, can I safely say than that you are instead avoiding me? I know when I am being avoided, please do not lie, Brienne.” He fixed his eyes on her and watched as the blush bloomed on her pale cheeks like red roses. When she ducked her head he knew he had her.

“It has been difficult,” she finally admitted under his steady gaze. “You seem to be everywhere.” She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve before nodding to herself decisively and walking to the rack near the doorway. She picked up one of the tourney swords, weighing it in her palm. 

“And you nowhere,” he said as she returned to him. 

She fell into stance, facing him, with her blunted sword raised. He widened his feet and met her with a smile. Instead of striking, as he knew she expected, he reflected her pose. They stood still a moment as she waited for him to bow or strike. Instead he waited on her. When she moved tentatively, he scrambled to move as her mirror. 

It was a technique his master-at-arms had taught him as a boy. The practice was for sparring partners, it allowed you to know truly understand the way your partner moved. It was also a handy exercise in form. Unconsciously two partners would correct stances and postures as they mimicked each other. When Brienne realized what he was doing she slowed her movements even more and carefully began going through guards and strokes. 

Their feet were stepping in tandem and soon Jaime was unsure who was leading in their little dance and who was reflecting. He’d never shared that feeling of oneness with anyone but Cersei and the sensation rocked him. His feet slid easily into backsteppe as Brienne shifted, unsure whether or not she performed it first or if he had. Sparring partners usually spent years working towards the type of seamless movement that he and Brienne seemed to naturally possess. In fact, Jaime had worked for years with Addam Marbrand, both at Casterly Rock and King’s Landing, and never once reached that level of unified perfection. 

Counter. Attack. Flourish. 

They moved in time, breathing in time and shifting weight in perfect unison. With every beat of his heart in his chest he knew, for certain, that hers beat along with it. 

Soon Jaime was less than a hand-span from his partner. He knew not which one of them had been the one to bring them closer but he suspected it had been both, gravitating towards each other like twin stars in a constellation. It was, once again, as it had always been. He stopped moving abruptly, causing Brienne’s movements to stutter as she halted. 

“Brienne,” he said softly, lifting his hand to her face but stopping it short of actually touching her.

“Jaime.” Her breath passed from her mouth and into his, heating his lips and causing his pulse to speed up. 

“I will not come to you again,” he said, hoping he sounded more convinced than he felt. He had every intention of leaving her be but even then he felt his resolve slipping, slipping.

She sucked in a breath. Unexpectedly she turned from him, stomping across the yard to the rack. “Brienne?” He questioned as she roughly replaced her tourney sword. Instead of responding to him she headed for the archway she’d come in through without so much as a glance in his direction. 

“Brienne!” He’d called after her then, expecting her to continue ignoring him, but she rounded. Her face was twisted in fury, and he stopped in his tracks. 

“Would that you’d never come at all,” she spat at him.

Then, in a flurry of movement, she was gone and he was left staring after her dumbly. 

_Had she been hurt? Had he hurt her somehow? Was this not what she wanted?_

She remained in her bedchamber for dinner and he did not see her again before retiring to bed himself, questions still on his mind.

Later that night Jaime did not dream of linen and silk and sex, instead he was treading on lumpy dirt, jagged rocks, and thick grass. He knew the terrain. It was of the rocky cliffs of Casterly Rock that he dreamt. Jaime’s hand ached from the repetitive battering he was taking but he did not relent. The sky above him was an inky black and the only light an eerie glow cast from an overlooking gallery that he knew never existed in the yard at Casterly Rock. In the gallery were his father and sister. They were pale and beautiful but they did not smile for him, they did not cheer. 

“Sister,” he asked, “why has father brought us here?”

Cersei’s face was passive, with the hint of smile gracing her fine features. “Us?” She asked, coyly tilting of her head. “But this is _your_ place, brother.” Meanwhile Tywin Lannister stiffly appraised Jaime as though his son has been found sorely wanting. He saw his father’s hard eyes glinting in the fading light and Jaime turned away. He couldn’t afford to be distracted as his opponent pressed his advantage, hacking and slashing at Jaime relentlessly. He struck back but found himself giving ground. His doom was on him, for what other ending could that battle have? His opponent’s sword blazed with a furious red fire as he pushed Jaime back, trapping him against the wooden fence. Jaime’s own sword, old and rusty, was coming apart with every clash of blades. A sound from above his head made him look away again for just a moment, but he caught sight of his family leaving him. His father and sister had turned their backs on him. Jaime screamed. 

“Sister, stay with me!” His cry was guttural and pleading. “Don’t leave me,” he begged, “don’t leave me in the dark. Don’t leave me alone!”

“You’re not alone,” Cersei’s voice replied over his screams. 

_My opponent_ , Jaime thought but when he brought his head back and raised his arm to block the blow he knew was coming he met only empty air. 

“Not so hard. You’ll break that.” Her voice stills his arm and Jaime sees his opponent is not a man, not a knight with a fiery sword. He is facing a practice dummy draped in crimson clothe, unmoving it stares back at him from beneath a fringe of straw many feet away and anchored in dirt. 

“Brienne?” He questioned in the dark. He could only make out her figure dimly though he stood no more than a few feet from her. 

“We swore,” Brienne said, “we swore an oath. I promised to protect you, and you promised…” Her wrists were bound in heavy chains and, naked, she raised her hands to him. “Jaime, please, if you would be so good.” 

He almost protested, his sword was too weak, it was bent and broken. But when he lifted his weapon to show her, it was long and shining with bright blue fire, lighting her features. The steel links that bound her parted like silk when he brought the blade down. 

“A sword,” she begged him and there it was at his feet. He lifted it up, scabbard, belt and all. When Jaime held it out to her she took it earnestly and fastened it around her thick waist. In the scant light from his sword and the ever darkening gallery his eyes roamed over her shape, she was still tall and strong but she seemed more womanly than he remembered. _In this light she could almost be a beauty_ , he thought. _In this light she could almost be a knight_. 

Brienne removed her sword from its scabbard and it took flame as well, burning brightly and forcing the darkness to retreat a little more. She took a few steps, swinging her longsword and watching the silvery blue flames shimmer and dance. Then she looked up and met his eyes, “what do they keep here?” She asked and stepped forward, resting her newly freed hand on his arm. “A bear? A cave lion? Direwolves? Some fell beast? Tell me, Jaime.” Her face was close to his, so close that her last sentence was only a whisper. “What lives in the darkness?”

“Doom,” he replied with the certainty that came with dreaming. _Only doom_. His sister and his father had long abandoned him. It was only he and Brienne that circled in the darkness, waiting for some unseen evil. 

“I mislike this place,” Brienne said from beside him, after walking the length of the yard. “Can we not leave?” There was no gate in the yard, only the high fences and the dark gallery. 

“I’m not fond of it myself.” Jaime kicked at the dirt at his feet, resting the point of his glowing sword in the dust. 

“Jaime, look.” Brienne was back at his side, her hand on his shoulder, and he trembled at the sudden touch. _She’s so warm_. He grew half-hard at the sensation and turned away from her to hide his cock, looking in the direction she pointed. “There.” Something was coming out of the black. _There was one, no, two riders on pale horses_. He reasoned they must have jumped the fence, although he hadn’t heard them. Still couldn’t, they came shrouded in silence. He was reminded of how Eddard Stark had found him in the throne room, Aerys dead on the floor. He’d come in silence, no clop of hooves or clink of chainmail. There had only been Ned’s dull grey eyes judging him. 

“Is that you, Stark?” He called into the black. I did not fear you living, I don’t fear you dead.”

“There are more.” Brienne’s grip tightened on his arm and he felt the curve of her hip meet his side. He slid his left arm before her, pushing her back. He saw them too. 

“Get behind me,” he said. The newcomers were armored in snow, it seemed to him, and ribbons of mist curled around them and their beasts. As the riders approached Jaime recognized them easily with a sick lurch of his stomach. None was Ned Stark. And though their visors were closed, Jaime did not need to look upon their faces to know them.

Five had been his brothers. Oswell Whent and Jon Darry. Lewyn Martell, a prince of Dorne. The White Bull, Gerold Hightower. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. All of them were members of the Kingsguard. Then, beside his brothers, crowned in mist and grief was Rhaegar Targaryan, the rightful heir to Dragonstone. And lastly, there was a smaller rider on a smaller mare, with eyes like summer and hair like sunlight. _Galladon_. 

“You don’t frighten me,” he called to them, as the split to either side of him and Brienne. He was unsure of which was to turn. “I will fight you one by one or all together but who will Brienne dual? You know,” he met Galladon’s sad eyes with a snear, “she gets cross when you leave her out.”

“I swore an oath to protect him, to keep him safe,” she said to Galladon’s shade. “I swore a holy oath.”

“We all swore oaths,” said Ser Arthur Dayne. His voice was soft and sad. 

The riders dismounted and unsheathed their longswords soundlessly. “He was going to burn the city to leave Robert only ashes,” Jaime cried. Brienne fought from behind his arm and pressed her back tightly against his, raising her fiery sword to the men at his back. 

“He was your king,” said Darry.

“You swore to keep him safe,” said Whent.

“And the children, them as well,” said Prince Lewyn.

“I left my wife and children in your hands,” said Prince Rhaegar, stepping forward. He glowed brighter then Jaime’s sword, first white then red. 

Jaime pressed back against Brienne as Rhaegar closed in on him. “I never thought he would hurt them. I was with the king.”

“Killing the king,” corrected the White Bull, “the king you had sworn to die for.” The words came from over his shoulder and Jaime turned to see Gerold Hightower closing in on Brienne with his longsword raised. Jaime spun, grabbing her waist and dragging them to the left and out from between the shades that haunted them. They stumbled back, never taking their eyes from the riders, until Jaime’s back hit the wooden fence sooner than he expected. 

Galladon was ahead of the riders as they came forward, moving swiftly across the uneven ground. When was within reach of Jaime and Brienne he opened his mouth but no words came out. Only water. So much black water. 

The cold water pooled quickly at their feet and began to rise. The riders formed a half-circle, hemming them in on all sides, leaving no room for escape. Still the water flowed and rose, stopping at the fence by some magic and crashing against his legs. “Stop, Galladon!” He shouted at the familiar shade. “Stop!” 

Jaime pulled Brienne closer to him and backed them tighter against the fence but there was no way out. The flames of his sword began to gutter out and soon only Brienne’s sword lit the yard as the water reached their chests and the shades came rushing in. 

“No, no, no, noooooooo!” He screamed and his eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dark. He was in a bed. He was at Harrenhal. 

“Ser Jaime?” He sat up quickly. 

“Brienne?”

“No, Pia, milord.” A young girl stepped forward. She was beside his bed, wearing only a thin shirt that hung to her legs. “I was sent to you, milord, but you were already asleep. You were screamin’, and I was afraid to wake ya.” 

“Who sent you?” He said gruffly, pushing the covers from his sweat drenched skin. He had to quell the urge to swing his legs from the bed and push past the girl in his room and force open Brienne’s door to make sure she hadn’t drowned. He needed to touch her, to know she was real. He took a shaky breath and released it when the girl spoke. 

“Qyburn, milord. But I came willingly, I was a slip of a girl when you came for Lord Whent’s tourney. I saw the king give you your white cloak. You looked so handsome all in white, with your smooth skin and golden curls. Sometimes, when I’m with other men,” she said, “I pretend they’re you, milord. Never thought I’d have you though.” She crept closer and put her knee up on his bed, meaning to climb in but his hand shot out to stop her. She halted and Jaime observed her. She was a pretty little thing with dirty mouse brown hair, full breasts and a small waist. Jaime met her dark eyes, rimmed in darker lashes, and shook his head. 

When he sent her away she looked honestly hurt as though he’d stung her. “Qyburn said you would like me, I promise you I’m good.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said. “But I’ve sworn an oath. Your charms are lost on me, you see.” He tried to be gentle as he got out of bed and led her to the door with a hand on her small shoulder.

“What about your woman, milord?” She inquired, turning to face him from her new place in the corridor outside of his room.

“Brienne?” He asked. “She’s not my woman.” _She is no one’s woman but her own_.

“Why not? Everyone says she is. If you break your oath for her, you can break it for me.” The girl was pouting, he couldn’t believe it. 

“Go, girl, you don’t want an old man like me. Find a green boy, a squire or a page, and make him yours.” She gave a rueful little smile and a nod. 

Before she left she turned back once more, “If you don’t mind my asking…what do you want from a woman than, milord?”

“Innocence,” he replied and then she spun away and was gone. He stared across the passage and straight at Brienne’s chamber door. 

_Innocence_. 

It was an interesting concept, innocence. She had it, though he had no idea how she had managed to hold onto it for so long. He hadn’t been innocent in… _have I ever been innocent?_ He couldn’t remember. Perhaps there was a time, long ago, before Cersei and Aerys and King’s Landing. If he had been, it had been with her. _Even Cersei had been innocent then_ , he mused with a wry smile. He paused, with his hand raised. How had he gotten there? He had crossed the hall and was preparing to knock at her door. Jaime took an unsteady step back. _No_. 

They would leave at day break, he could see her then and not before. She needed rest and so did he. He had resolved to leave her to her own devices and he meant to keep that promise, no matter how hard it might be. She clearly did not want his attentions and besides that, he’d promised himself to another. He’d sworn and, though he felt the bitter pangs of true regret for the first time in a long time, he was no longer his own to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I love to hear from you and all questions, comments, concerns and criticism are more than welcome!! See you at Chapter 10! xx


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bear and the maiden fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warm welcome back and thank you to my beta, _ValyrianSteel_ for her work on this chapter. Thank you for tirelessly making me better! :) Also, thank you guys for all of your comments and sweet, sweet praise on the last chapter and all the chapters before it. You're amazing.

The sun came over a horizon the color of buttercups and rose-dyed silk. Jaime watched it peak over the country side, noting how poetic his mind had become. He’d never been much for romance. He hated the courtesy, chivalry, and gallantry that was expected of suitors and never could fathom the need for all that useless jewelry. No, he left all the wooing of courtly ladies and maids to the green boys, the hedge knights and little lordlings that were better suited to it. Jaime always had more important things to do; he had no time to compose songs and prick his fingers on rose thorns. There were tourneys and battles and kings that needed tending to. And, truthfully, there’d never been a need. 

He’d had Cersei. His perfect, golden twin. _His other half._

All that was needed was for him to ask. Cersei never cared for polite smiles or rare candies. She had no need for flowers or baubles or pretty words. Words were wind. She wanted action. She wanted devotion. He gave her all she wanted in spades but he never wooed her, never had to. Beyond that his white cloak removed any necessity for those particular skills and he, until very recently, had never lamented the loss. Still, Jaime thought perhaps he had a natural affinity for romance. Of late he seemed to be making an easy effort with poetry; comparing Brienne’s eyes to summer skies, matching her figure to the stars and naming her the _maiden_. Before he knew it he was likening the rising sun to the color of her hideous dress. Perhaps he’d always been romantically poetic. Cersei, after all, had always been his _golden_ twin. _Gods help me if I ever taste her cunt_ , he thought bitterly, turning away from the window with a frown. _I’ll be lost_. 

Today would be the day he would leave Harrenhal and it should have made him glad, regardless of his recent troubles. He would return to King’s Landing, to Cersei, to his brother, and this morning would be the start of it. Jaime resolved himself and left his chambers with a purposeful stride. He took breakfast with Steelshanks’ men early on and made somewhat uneasy overtures of friendship that were not rebuffed. Jaime had long known men like the ones who would be accompanying him to King’s Landing; he had been a commander and soldier, and he knew what to say to win them over. After breakfast Qyburn seemed to dog his steps, going so far as attempting to adjust Jaime’s saddle for him. _Trying to gain favor._ Jaime wondered what he thought he would get by earning the Kingslayer’s friendship. It was no matter, the man would be accepted in King’s Landing easily enough with Jaime’s good word, but even Tywin Lannister had no control over the citadel. Qyburn would remain chainless, no matter what friends he made. 

Once the horses were packed and saddled and the rooms were checked over for missing belongings, the company was ready to depart. In Jaime’s excitement he almost forgot about Brienne and about his dream. Almost. His dream had been chilling and it came rushing back to him as he searched down the line for Brienne’s familiar frame and could not find it. He tried to look for the figure he knew but in his mind he could only see the Brienne of his own conjuring, her almost womanly shape in the dim and murky light, her hips and the curves of her small breasts. He shook his head and looked again. 

She was not there. 

“Kingslayer?” Steelshanks Walton shouted from the end of the line as Jaime refused to move and paced his horse back and forth, fruitlessly searching for a head of white-blonde hair he knew he wouldn’t find. Jaime looked to his escort and nearly abandoned his search. _Why should I wait on her?_ She had, after all, seemed rather content to let her honor keep her warm at night and to never speak to him again. 

Instead though he found himself shaking his head and trotting his horse over to the leader of his guard. “The Lady of Tarth is missing. Lord Bolton assured me she would be accompanying us to King’s Landing.”

“I have been informed.” Steelshanks nodded and looked to his right, then left, before finally beckoning over a page. “Boy, see to it the Lady Brienne of Tarth has been roused. Perhaps she’s still abed. I’ll not wait all day on a maiden.”

Immediately the boy, Peck Jaime thought he was called, raced off on foot in the direction of the tower that had held Brienne’s chamber and his own. Meanwhile, Jaime tried to rack his brain in an attempt to remember whether or not he’d seen any indication of her that morning. A maid or a squire at her door, anything that might indicate she’d been up or about. It was of no use. He knew for certain that he hadn’t. He had waited impatiently in his room for her to show her broad, homely face and freckled nose in the corridor so that he could convince himself that his dream was not premonitory and that she hadn’t drowned, that she was alive and well and healthy. It had been for naught. In the end Jaime had gone to break his fast without her. 

Jaime paced his horse back-and-forth before the gate, hoping the boy would round the corner with Brienne with every second that passed. After a few minutes, and after calling Brienne a number of unsavory things in his mind that were increasing rather rapidly in acidity, Jaime spotted the boy jogging through the yard, weaving expertly between the horses. 

“Milady,” he said between panting breaths, “is not in her room. No one knows where she is milord. Pia says-” The boy stuttered to a halt.

“Come on boy, out with it. What did she say?” Peck blushed a little at Steelshanks’ question. It looked as though Pia had taken his advice and found a page to make her own. Jaime had to admit that Peck was a better fit for her than he would have been.

“She said milady was upset with-with her lord.” The page looked down at the ground and dug the toe of his boot in the dirt before meeting Jaime’s eyes. “That is, she’s angry at the Kingslayer, Ser.”

“Seven hells,” Jaime muttered to himself more than anyone else. How had that little kitchen urchin figured that out? Were they so transparent? He wondered if perhaps Pia knew the root of Brienne’s outburst. After his apology he couldn’t pinpoint the reasons for her continued ire any more than he could pinpoint the crux of his fixation with her. Steelshanks looked to Jaime with a raised brow and he couldn’t help the growl that escaped his throat before he swung down from his horse. “I’ll find her,” he said darkly, whilst turning toward the keep. “Wait for me,” he said louder and more commandingly. He barely heard Steelshanks’ indignant response as he stalked towards the gate. 

Jaime was no longer dressed in rags but he was unarmed, unarmoured, and considered a captive, a lion on a leash and still bore the moniker Kingslayer to everyone but the woman whom he sought. All of those had previously worked to his advantage helping him to enjoy, when he could bring himself to, his time at Harrenhal by providing him much appreciated solitude. At that moment, however, he would have much rather preferred having a man or two to help him scour the expansive grounds of Harrenhal. He could certainly look intimidating enough to find assistance, but he was not in the mood to pander to Roose Bolton’s household knights. Instead he would content himself with scullery maids and cupbearers, the pages and the squires and the cooks. Every one of them would be worth ten knights in the task of finding that indomitable wench besides. Peck, the tall page who Steelshanks had originally sent to find Brienne, had followed Jaime into the holdfast and was standing ready for orders when Jaime turned to him. 

“You said you went to her room. How did you get there?”

“I walked, milord.” Peck tilted his head and gave a look of exasperation at Jaime’s question. Jaime couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He tried to stay calm and not wring the lanky page’s over long neck for impertinence.

“I mean, what way did you take?”

The boy looked appropriately chastised and ducked his head before answering. “I went through the yard, milord, and the kitchens to get to the tower.”

“So the ungrateful wench isn’t in the kitchens or the yard, and she’s not in her chambers. Did you go anywhere else, Peck? Think.”

The boy bit his lip and scrunched his face in thought. “Well, I passed by the hall on my way to the gate, milord. Milady was not there,” he said triumphantly. 

“Good. I want you to check the Tower of Dread, Kingspyre Tower, the Widow’s Tower and the Wailing Tower. Make sure you go all the way to the top. Get Pia, have her check the passages and the barracks hall, the armoury and the bathhouse. I’m going to the Tower of Ghosts, the sept and the cellar. I’ll take the godswood as well. Ask anyone you meet on the way if they’ve seen her. If they have, go to her. Understand?” The boy nodded. “When you’ve finished go to,” he thought for a moment of a safe meeting place, unlikely to have any of Lord Vargo’s men. “Harren’s bear pit. I shall be waiting. Tell Pia to go there as well. Hopefully one of us will have managed to tow my Lady of Tarth there.” Peck nodded once again and took off at a run towards the kitchens.

He had specifically given both Peck and Pia the places he thought were the least likely to be hiding his prickly companion because he doubted either of them would be able to move her if she did not want to be moved. Still, he wanted to leave no stone unturned. He started with the Tower of Ghosts, near the blackened ruins of Harrenhal’s sept. As he suspected the tower was both empty of life and of Brienne. It was a disused tower, blackened and burned beyond recognition of its former glory. Jaime itched for a sword as he searched uneasily through the scorched ruins, feeling foolish. He knew why they didn’t arm him. Not only would it be dangerous, but it would make him look less of a prisoner and more of a guest. Still, he ached for the extension of his right hand that he had once been so familiar with. As he advanced a nervous gnawing began to eat at his stomach, he began thinking of Vargo Hoat. Perhaps the Goat had decided to keep her, regardless of Lord Bolton’s decision that she return with Jaime. Vargo Hoat was nothing but a mad dog and, with the departure of Roose Bolton and his retinue earlier that morning, Jaime knew the prickly Goat could be as unpredictable as wildfire. He very suddenly hated himself for not knocking on her door the night before, for not checking on her. He’d been so close. He could have apologized, _again_ , and ensured that she intended to continue on their journey with him. He could have secured a promise that she would not do anything foolish, that she would not abandon him. 

_What if she was already gone?_

Other thoughts came into his mind unbidden, each one worse than the one before it. He saw vivid flashes of possible horrors and they sickened his stomach as he moved. 

_Vargo Hoat lying over her, his greasy beard dragging across her face, her bound hands crushed beneath her._

_A dagger gliding smoothly through her back, the same way she put a dagger through Zollo, blood sliding down to the tip in thick droplets. Her mouth open, black blood flowing out like water._

_A pair of booted feet swaying back and forth in the wind, just above the dirt and mud, accompanied by the creak of a hangman’s rope. The red of burns etched around the long column of her once pale neck._

Jaime’s pace quickened as he picked his way through the melted stone of the sept, kicking chunks of rock out of his way as he went. She would not have gone quietly, he is sure of it. If she had been taken he would have heard, someone would have heard. She would have fought and grunted like a sow in the birthing bed. 

He trudged onward.

Once through the sept Jaime headed directly for the godswood without breaking stride. As far as he knew Brienne worshipped the Seven like the rest of the subjects of the more southern of the Seven Kingdoms, but she also preferred being out of doors and he remembered her talk of her affection for the godswood, meager as it was, at Storm’s End. Casterly Rock never had one, so far as Jaime knew, although he supposed it might have once, a very long time before the Lannisters took it from House Casterly. 

He wondered, pushing the poisoned thoughts of Brienne’s demise from his mind as he walked past the sept and into on open yard, if perhaps there was a godswood on Tarth. 

When Galladon and Brienne had come to the Rock they’d both been too upset to talk about Tarth and Jaime had been too distraught over the loss of his mother to ask. If Jaime found her, no when he found her, he decided he would ask about her Sapphire Isle. It might be too many years too late to matter but Brienne might enjoy talking about her home. He realized too, with no small amount of surprise, that he would like hearing about it.

The godswood of Harrenhal was perhaps the only thing that didn’t show visible signs of the doom that befell that blackened place. Where the trees had burned, saplings sprung up to take their place. Where the grasses had been trampled by screaming women and melted men, new grasses had grown. Obviously the wood was unkempt. Ivies grew rampant across the ground, holding down the trees and tangling in the fallen leaves like fingers in a lover’s hair. Still, it was lush and green and rather beautiful in a calming sort of way. It was certainly not a garden, not a riot of color and perfume, but it was perhaps better for it. It had a more subtle beauty than anything else, beautiful in feeling rather than in look. The small wood was richly scented by clean water and fresh grass, a respite from the dust, dirt, and filth, human and animal alike. Jaime wandered in a few more steps and reveled in the change of atmosphere. It was dark beneath the thick, glossy leaves still clinging to the branches and the noises of the castle seemed too faint and far off to hear. He took another step, and then another, breathing deep and letting the small grove swallow him up. 

His previously frantic pace slowed more and more the further he walked, halting all together when he saw her. Brienne was standing in her riding cloak and breeches on the far side of a smallish clearing. He thought her perfectly at home, perfectly placed in that subtle, beautiful, calming place. She stood transfixed before a massive weirwood, Harrenhal’s Heart Tree he presumed. It was a great chalk white thing with blood red leaves and a strange, wistful looking face carved into the pallid bark. The eyes were glassy and weeping stiff, blood red tears of thick, glittering weirwood sap. Brienne was in profile, though not far off, and Jaime could see that her eyes, much like the eyes of the unsettling tree before her, were red rimmed and glassy. He hesitated, fearing he might startle her, but she turned to him, looking startled, before he had even decided whether or not to move. 

“I’m sorry, ser” she said haltingly, her face seemingly shocked at both his intrusion into her private time and at the time of day. She looked around the clearing as though she were waking from a dream, blinking rapidly. “Time seems to slip away here.” She met his eyes and inclined her head downward to break his gaze. 

Jaime walked forward and leaned casually against a tree on the edge of the clearing, commanding her subconsciously to turn away from the tree and look at him in its place. “It would seem so. I, myself, have indeed lost an hour of time I could have had on the King’s Road in fetching you.” He was grateful to see her, but felt dull anger slip through his veins as she continued to stand, staring at him, with her big, doe eyes and nervously bitten lips. His mouth curled into a scowl. “You realize how tenuous your safety is, don’t you? You understand that you are only permitted to continue on to King’s Landing because I refused to surrender you to Lord Bolton. He is gone now, Brienne, and his dog is rabid. Did you desire that we leave you with _Lord Vargo_?” 

Her mouth flattened and her bright eyes narrowed at him. “Is that what you wish, ser?” Her response was more of a bark than a reply and he smiled at the furious clenching of her jaw. He did notice, unmistakably, a look of fear cross her face though, and let himself be angry all over again at her stupid stubbornness and refusal to see his obvious affection for her. Regardless of how unreasonable even he knew it was. 

Jaime sighed, striding across the clearing to stand with her before the giant tree. When he stopped he felt uneasy as he imagined two sets of eyes on him instead of one. 

“You great, bloody, stubborn woman, of course I don’t want to leave you here. I want you to come to King’s Landing, I want you to fulfill your oath to Lady Stark and take those girls from the Crownlands and to their mother.” He leaned in very close and let his hand rest on her shoulder. He had to fight the urge to tug her to him, to bury his face in her brittle hair. He wanted to let his fingers caress her cheeks and let his thumb drift over her plump lips, but he firmly pressed his grip into the fabric of her riding cloak and refused, choosing instead to edge her slightly closer as he continued. “But only because that is what you want. Then, for myself, _I want you to come back_. Because the Starks can’t win this war, Brienne, and I’ll not have you die for a green boy-king.” Her mouth opened and closed as she breathed deeply and leaned towards him just the slightest bit. 

_Cersei. Cersei. Cersei._

He couldn’t think of Brienne standing so close to him, looking at him with her astonishing blue eyes and soft, inexperienced lips so near to brushing his. Her soft, wide, unsure mouth so close to taking lessons from his tongue and teeth. He pushed away thoughts of her tentative kisses, of her long legs and the warm, wet folds between them. He had to think of his family. He couldn’t betray them; his king, his brother, his father, and _Cersei_. 

“I do not fight for the Starks,” she whispered across his face, “I fight for Lady Catelyn.”

Jaime gripped her shoulder tighter and threw back fiercely, “Catelyn Stark will _die_.” She frowned but stayed silent. “You know our song. There are no more Reynes, nor Tarbecks. There will be no more Starks. She imprisoned Tyrion without evidence and her son marches on the king. You remember Tyrion don’t you, how he loved you? What a good baby he was? I know you haven’t seen him in a long time but-”

“Now he drinks men twice his size under the table and beds more whores than Aegon the Unworthy.” Her eyes were sad and disappointed and he wondered if perhaps Tyrion would have been different if she’d stayed. If Galladon had lived. 

_If._

“Perhaps he did, once, but he is marrying Sansa Stark, she’ll be a Lannister, and even she will not be able to protect them. Tyrion will do what he can but it will not save them from Joffrey and our sweet sister.” The words were bitter in his mouth. 

“King Joffrey is a king without a claim, Jaime. He is your son, isn’t he? Not Robert Baratheon’s.”

“He is my king, nothing more.” His voice was flat and, to his astonishment, completely honest. Joffrey had been a burden, a squirt of seed that turned into a crying, squawking thing that sucked at Cersei’s teat and stole her attentions from him.

“You are not his father?” There was a desperate hope in her features and Jaime wanted to nurture it. He wanted to lie. To convince her that she had misunderstood him in the bath. He wanted back the little girl who looked up to him, trusted him. He wanted the woman that was all strength and honor and goodness wrapped up in hot breath and fevered skin, but he knew he couldn’t have her.

“I am his father, but the boy is _not_ my son. Joffrey was raised by Robert.” Jaime stiffened his posture and cursed himself for what he was about to do even as Brienne began to recoil somewhat. “He was nothing to me but an errant squirt of seed in Cersei’s cunt,” he spit out. His words had the desired effect, shock. He wanted to catch her off guard. Brienne’s expression hardened and she stumbled back from him, bumping into the weirwood behind her. The tree halted her progress but it couldn’t stop Jaime from watching the resignation and pain in her beautiful eyes. Her disappointment in him was palpable. 

“How can you say that?”

“You’ve never met the boy. I’m sure you wouldn’t like him, he’s too much his mother. King Joffrey is as golden as Cersei, with even more pride, and he is as rash and foolish as Robert Baratheon. He’s cruel, Brienne. He will slaughter Catelyn Stark and her sons, and her daughters, with my father and the Lannister host behind him. He’ll slaughter you too if you don’t fight for us, _for me_. I can protect you.”

“I do not need protection and I will never fight for a false King, especially one as cruel as you say Joffrey is. I am sworn, ser.” She had fled from him and in doing so backed herself into the face of the weirwood, trapping herself. Jaime could not help but press the advantage by penning her in between his arms and the tree.

“I am not asking you to. I am asking that you fight for me. We can protect each other, then. Pledge yourself to me and I promise to never dishonor you. I will never ask anything of you that you are unwilling to give. I will never try to convince you to take up arms against those who you would not and just as I have sworn to never take up arms against Stark or Tully again, neither shall you. Please, Brienne.” 

She bit her lip nervously and searched his face before shaking her head. 

“No.” She shoved away from him violently and Jaime fell back a few steps. Her push was both firm and unexpected and he was reminded how easily she could have disengaged herself from him the other night if only she’d wanted to and he’d been less convincing. “I have sworn to Lady Catelyn, and maybe vows don’t matter to you but they matter a great deal to me.”

“I can see that.” Her eyes were wild and her hair was matted from being pressed against the tree. He did not want to see it covered in blood. 

“Until such a time as she releases me, I will not swear fealty to another.” Brienne stood firmly, feet planted and looking every bit the soldier as she spoke. She reminded him of his youth; he had been defiant and golden. Though he imagined others might not see the beauty in her code of honor and strength of character. They would see a large, homely girl, shy and graceless. They might not see that her wide mouth could turn into an even wider smile, or notice her tinkling laugh. Those things could be easy to overlook, but if she were gone he knew he would miss them.

“You will die.” 

“Then I die.”

Jaime shook his head at her unbending willfulness. Those who do not bend will break. He couldn’t bear to have her so thoroughly broken. What an unfair end to a too short life. “You would give up so easily?”

“It is not a certainty,” she said with a glimmer in her eye. It was the sort of thing he might have said before facing down an impossible foe. In fact, he had said something quite similar before the battle with the Kingswood Brotherhood. He had been right then, but she was wrong.

“Oh, it is.”

“Then the Warrior will take me.” Not the Maiden or the Mother, he noted, but the Warrior. Hadn’t he compared her to the Warrior? _Had I known all that time ago that this might be how it ended? No. This is not the end._

“Will you think on it?”

“No.”

He hated to beg. He refused to cry and whine, like a lost cub in the wilderness, but he felt his mouth open again to plead with her anyway. “I only ask that you _think_ about it. How hard is that, to think on something? Or are you as dumb as you are stubborn? Please, Brienne.”

She was silent for a beat, scowling at him, and he prepared himself for another dismissal but something in his face must have moved her. She dipped her head and sighed, her shoulders sagging in relief. “Fine. I will consider your offer,” Jaime was already smiling and congratulating himself, “but Jaime, I do not intend to change my mind.”

“Ah, but many things change, my lady.” He bowed to her and backed away. Somehow he had, once again, edged closer to her as they argued. “And now that we have that settled, I must insist we return lest Walton leave without us.” He held his arm out to her, which she cautiously took out of courtesy, he suspected. That was good, if she regarded him coolly and kept her distance then he would not be tempted to creep into her tent at night, to keep her warm or dishonor her. He was also fairly convinced that with enough time he could sway her away from Catelyn Stark and the losing side. He looked at her from the corner of his eye and grinned as they exited the godswood. It had been some time since he’d teased her in earnest and he was in much better spirits. 

“Peck and Pia are waiting for us at the bear pit. I fear we have been longer than I anticipated and poor Pia is sure that you and I are to be married like in those tales of knights and maidens that you used to be so fond of. I have tried to dissuade her from the notion but the amount of time we’ve spent snuck off together today will undoubtedly unravel all my good work.” 

He felt Brienne stiffen beside him and he chuckled as she tried to indignantly wrench away her arm unsuccessfully. She did eventually give up, letting him prattle on about Peck and Pia and Steelshanks all the way back into the castle and through the many corridors until they came through to the bear pit, near the bloody gate and their precious way home. Though, upon entering the area, Jaime immediately regretted his choice of meeting spots. Normally the bear pit was a great cavernous place, devoid of life. Harren had wanted to do his bear baiting in style and the pit was low sunk into the ground and surrounded by blackened marble seats and a large, newly built wooden gallery surrounded it for the less important spectators. It had been disused as long as Jaime had been there since there was little occasion for festivities during a war. But instead of an empty yard Jaime was irritated to find the bear pit packed with Bloody Mummers, Peck and Pia nowhere in sight. Jaime gripped Brienne’s arm and turned to leave the site but was halted just as soon as his back was turned.

“Kingthlayer!” A raspy voice bellowed from behind them, making Jaime’s stomach clench. He tightened his grip on Brienne’s arm and turned back to face his beckoner. He met the gaze of Vargo Hoat and his many Brave Companions with a passive face, but he could feel sweat prickle on his brow. “I thought you’d left uth, Kingthlayer. Have you and your whore come to watth thith man die?”

Jaime looked beyond the Goat and his black beard to a man in chains who looked barely alive and capable of standing. “I fear the sport is spoiled for me, Lord Vargo. Once you’ve watched a man cook in his own armour, it’s hard to be entertained by something as common as bear baiting.”

He turned again to take his leave but Brienne was moving slowly and had turned her head back several times in only a handful of steps.

“We can’t leave him.” Her whisper startled him and his steps faltered slightly but did not stop. “They will kill him.”

“Yes, that is the desired outcome,” he replied harshly and tugged her forward. He had no time to waste on Vargo Hoat and hopefully Peck and Pia were smart enough to stay clear of the new Lord of Harrenhal.

“We have to save him.” She tugged furtively back but he kept moving.

“We can’t.”

“You would just leave him?” Brienne gave up all pretense of pretending and stopped dead in her tracks, causing Jaime to stop and regard her. “You are no knight.”

“Being a knight does not mean I am not a man. Yes, I would leave him. I will leave him, to save myself and to save you.” 

“But he is innocent.”

“How do you know? He could be a murderer, a rapist, a thief.”

“I don’t,” she confessed, “But no one deserves to die like that, not without a fair trial.” Her eyebrows knit as she stared into his eyes, imploring him to agree with her. 

“Brienne, we can’t. If he is truly innocent then perhaps the gods will spare him or give him a quick death.” He released her arm from his grip and took her hand. “We have to go.”

Jaime began to move again but Brienne jerked her fingers from his grip. “I’m not leaving him.” She said as she took off at a brisk walk back towards the shouts and screams of the pit. He took off after her, resigned. From the sounds of the onlookers, Jaime surmised that things weren’t going too well for the bait. Brienne seemed to notice as well as she broke into a jog. 

“It theemth your whore hath a tathte for blood, Kingthlayer!” Vargo Hoat shouted from his perch above the pit as Brienne rushed forward.

“Pull him out,” she demanded when they reached the edge of the crowd.

“No, wench. What thay you to that?” Lord Vargo replied with a sharp smile. 

“Her name’s Brienne.” Jaime ascended the steps behind her, past a dozen startled sellswords. “Pull him out of there.”

“Thay out of thith, Kingthlayer, unleth you’d like to take hith plath.” He waved a wine cup at the pit, almost spilling it. 

Brienne was standing at the top of the wooden steps, her stance wide and her shoulders set, prepared for battle. “This man is innocent. I demand you release him.”

“Or what?” 

He wasn’t sure who the bigger fool was, Brienne for trying to save some nameless, faceless prisoner or Hoat for getting in her way. _Hoat must not know how freakish strong she is. He’d best be careful lest she break that skinny neck of his._ Regardless of how sweet that thought was, Brienne putting an end to the Qohorik, Jaime stepped between the two. He barely managed to muscle Brienne slightly to the side, but when he laid his hand on her shoulder she seemed to relax.

“I’m afraid I must insist, for my lady cannot abide senseless violence. If you wouldn’t mind pulling him out, I would be glad to pay his ransom.” He turned to Brienne and nodded his head in mock deference, “As a gift for you, sweetling.”

A roar turned them both around to the pit. The crowd shouted in response as the bear bellowed in fury. It was eight feet tall. _Gregor Clegane with a pelt_ , he thought, _though likely smarte_ r. The bear lashed out but the man stumbled back, gripping his sword tightly. It didn’t have the same reach as Gregor Clegane, with that monster of a greatsword he had, but then again neither did the man in the pit. The bear bellowed again, exposing rows of great yellow teeth, before dropping down to all fours and coming forward. _This is your chance, strike!_ But the man merely poked out ineffectually with the tip of his sword, prodding at the beast. 

“Strike,” shouted Brienne from beside him, “Strike now! Kill him!” 

The bear was wary of the man; he’d seen swords before, but he was edging closer all the time. The man was no great swordsman but he managed to land an awkward slice on one of the bears legs, though it produced no blood. That was when he knew what had happened. It seemed Brienne came to the realization at the same time because she pushed past him and almost reached Hoat before Jaime caught her around the waist, holding her as she yelled at their once captor.

“You gave him a tourney sword!”

“Of courth,” he responded. “I only have one bear.”

“I told you, _I’ll_ pay his bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires, whatever you want. Just get him out of there!” His words were labored as he struggled to hold Brienne against him but he could clearly hear Vargo Hoat’s response.

The goat laughed and Jaime was furious, furious enough to release Brienne’s waist and pull his hand back to take a swing at the man’s greasy face. In the second it took him to wind up, Brienne spun jumped away from him and into the pit. 

“Brienne!” He shouted, his fingers reaching and grasping at nothing. The goat whooped and hollered in sheer, animalistic delight at the prospect of witnessing two bear maulings as opposed to one. 

“Your whore ith brave, Kingthlayer, and thtupid.” He laughed and Jaime took a step towards him menacingly but turned away as he heard the bear roar furiously. Brienne had bent down, grabbed up a handful of sand and thrown it into the bear’s face. It reared up on its hind legs and mauled the air, roaring like the blazes. “You want her? Go get her.”

So he did.

Jaime grabbed Vargo’s blade from his left hip and before the goat could so much as realize the steel was gone Jaime was leaping into the pit.

Brienne was standing over the man who had fallen and was bleeding profusely from a wound on the neck. “Jaime, what are you doing?”

“Something stupid. Get behind me.” He shouted. She darted her hand down, lifting up a bit of stray bone from the bottom of the pit and throwing it at the bear from the opposite direction before dragging the man behind Jaime. It burst against the bear’s face with a little explosion of meat and maggots. _Charming_. He thanked whatever gods were listening for her immense strength then as she stood beside him with another handful of sand in the grasp of her large hands. She flung sand at the bear’s face and it roared again. Brienne tried to dart around him then but he kicked her legs out from under her and she fell onto her back in the sand. Jaime knew she was trying to confuse the bear but he couldn’t risk the tactic with her unarmed. 

“What are you doing?!” She shouted up at him as he dropped to his knees.

“I told you to stay behind me!”

He straddled her and the bear charged them. Jaime swung the sword up in a deathly arc and the bear didn’t flinch as the blade sliced deep into his neck. Clearly the tourney sword had removed the bear’s fear of blades. Hot blood sprayed across him and Brienne as the bear reeled back, growling in pain. It rose back up on its hind legs and Jaime was surprised to see a feathered shaft sprout from beneath the beasts left eye. There was a deep twang and another came out of its chest. Another and another sprang up from the bear’s fur and Brienne and Jaime looked up to see Steelshanks and his some two hundred men with crossbows trained on the dying beast, as well as Peck and Pia, all standing on the wooden landing and filling in the gaps left by the Brave Companions. The crowd had gone eerily silent as the bear fell and Vargo Hoat began screaming. 

“You thlew my bear!” He shrieked at the commander of the company. 

Walton appraised him coolly as ropes were dropped down for Brienne and Jaime to climb out and to remove the bleeding prisoner. “And I’ll serve you the same if you give me trouble. We’re taking the Kingslayer, the wench, and the prisoner.”

“Her name is Brienne,” Jaime responded as he climbed onto the platform behind Brienne. “Brienne, the Maid of Tarth.” He turned to her and helped to pull up Vargo Hoat’s previous entertainment and said very seriously, “You know, when we tell the story it’ll have to be you that saved him and me that saved you. _I only rescue maidens_.” She smiled widely before blushing when he winked and she nearly lost her grip on the rope. 

By the time they were all sorted Rorge was still shouting for them to be killed but half of the Brave Companions were drunk and not only were the northmen stone sober, there were also twice as many of them. The goat frowned before speaking, “Go. I hath chothen to be merthiful. Tell your lord father.”

“Oh, I will, my lord.” _Not that it will do you any good._

Not until they were half a league from Harrenhal and out of the range of any archers did Steelshanks let his anger show. “Are you _mad?_ Did you mean to die going up against a bear with your bare hands?” He was shouting at Brienne, who looked appropriately chastised. “And you,” he rounded on Jaime suddenly, “Why did I have to hear it from Peck and the scullery girl? Why didn’t you return to the gate at once?”

“I was hoping you’d find us and slay the beast before the beast slew us. Elsewise, Lord Bolton would have you peeled like an orange, no?”

Walton glowered. “Your prisoner, Stafford he’s called, is dying, Qyburn says. It would have been kinder to leave him in the pit.” Steelshanks cursed them both and spurred his horse away from them and galloped on up the column. 

Brienne was silent, flanked by himself and Peck, as they made mercifully good time that day beneath a clear blue sky. Stafford died of his wounds sometime in the night, sick with fever. Jaime thought Brienne knew when it happened for she turned to him in the night and let him hold her as she cried silent tears into his chest. No one said a word about it the next day to either of them and he was left under a pile of stones beside the King’s Road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I love to hear all of your questions, comments, criticism, and concerns! Thank you so much for reading!


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're walking, and we're walking. Time to board the exposition train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to all of you who have left comments! They are, quite literally, amazing. A special thanks to _Ro_Nordmann_ for her lovely banner! I melted. Another special thanks, as always, to my lovely beta, _Valyriansteel_ , with whom I could not do this without....or rather, I could not do this as well without. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Brienne and Jaime reached an easy truce at the onset of their journey into the Crownlands. It was much preferable to their previous expeditions, in Jaime’s opinion, and he found himself rather enjoying their time together. She was no longer ignoring him, nor playing the gaoler, and he was no longer infringing on her time, but instead sharing it with her. Steelshanks’ men left them mostly to their own devices and the only people Jaime and she spoke to, aside from one another, were Qyburn, Peck, and Pia. Qyburn most often spent his time tending to the wounds they had received from Vargo Hoat’s bear and making further attempts at ingratiating himself to Jaime. It was an odd feeling, having someone at your beck and call, willing to cater to your whims. Jaime had need of very little but he found it still felt gratifying to be treated with the respect he had once taken for granted. As for Peck, Jaime was his benefactor whether the page knew it or not. He took great joy from watching the boy court the saucy scullery maid and offered what little help he could. The page was quite the amateur, but so was Jaime; the two made a fairly pathetic pair. The girl in question, Pia, liked Peck a great deal, luckily, so he was able to afford a few mistakes. The only other person she seemed to like nearly as much as she liked her beau was Brienne. 

Pia was often all too happy to forget all of Steelshanks’ men, Peck, and the old lion of the Rock entirely in favor of pestering the Maid of Tarth, much to Jaime’s amusement. Pia was rather taken with the idea of being a shieldmaiden and was constantly asking Brienne questions about Tarth and fighting for King Renly and Lady Stark. When she wasn’t prattling on about battles and armour she was, of course, asking about fucking the Kingslayer. The first time Jaime heard Pia ask Brienne what his cock was like he nearly fell out of his saddle. In fact, so did Brienne. She stuttered and spluttered and turned the most brilliant shade of Lannister crimson he had ever seen. Pia was sorely disappointed, however, when Brienne wouldn’t share. The impudent little thing decided the only way to get the Maid of Tarth talking was to start the sharing herself. She launched into a very lewd description of the page, Peck, which mortified Brienne. He was inclined to think, after Brienne positively fled from Pia (hard to do on horseback), that the girl might have given up then. That would not do, he decided, and he immediately went to Pia and apologized for his lady’s odd behavior. 

“She is very unaccustomed to such forwardness,” he’d said, before assuring Pia that Brienne really did need a lady friend to share such things with and would certainly open up with a little time and some delicate prying. Pia was delighted at the prospect and Jaime was happy to see it. He’d been too long in a dull and dour mood at Harrenhal and watching the interactions between the two was a welcome amusement and distraction from the monotony of travel. Besides, he rather liked the idea of Brienne being forced, on a daily basis, into thinking about him naked. If he had to be constantly reminded of her, why should not she be reminded of him? 

Every evening they made camp and every evening Brienne would lay out her blankets at his side. Without fail, her coverings and his would end up tangled together in the dark, much like their owners, and he would wake up wrapped around her or she around him. Thankfully they slept in a tent that was often some ways away from the general camp, and were relatively unmolested. Not that it would have mattered. Most of Walton’s men had heard that damnable title, _Kinglsayer’s Whore_ , from the Mummers, and were told the tale of their kiss in the creek. It was assumed by Walton, regardless of her protestations, that Brienne would be sleeping in close quarters with Jaime from the start. It was both a mercy and a misery. The first night they spent on the road, Stafford, the prisoner Brienne had been so intent on saving, died beneath the stars. She had been close to Jaime then and he had easily taken her in his arms as she soaked his jerkin with salt tears. Other nights, however, it was difficult to calm his body as she slept in blissful ignorance beside him. 

Qyburn made matters worse by offering Brienne moon tea during breakfast the second day of the journey, causing Brienne to blush and nearly choke on her tongue. In her defense, he was taken off guard as well and barely managed a stilted reply, informing the old man that the precaution was unnecessary. In the end Brienne took the tea at the old man’s insistence, but did not drink it. He smiled at the sudden memory of her flushing and snatching the useless beverage from Qyburn’s hands just so he would leave her alone. Jaime, still grinning, looked to his right and caught her eye. 

“What has you grinning like the smiling knight, Ser?” There was a sparkle in her eyes as she edged her mare closer to his.

“I am offended. You never saw how ugly he was. If you did you would never have made that comparison,” he said matter-of-factly. She just shrugged with a small smile of her own. “I was thinking on whether or not our good friend Qyburn might brew you some more tea this afternoon, my lady.” 

Brienne glared at him and Jaime’s grin widened. 

“I told him that would not be necessary,” she said through gritted teeth and he had to laugh.

“And did he believe you?”

“It is not amusing, Jaime. He thinks that we- that I need it. It’s because you won’t correct him. _Or Pia_.” Her tightened muscles spurred her horse on in a small flurry of dust and he had to nudge his mount to keep up with her pace. 

“You’re not really blaming me for the fancies of a perverted old man and a maiden I hardly know, are you?”

“ _She_ is not a _maiden_ ,” Brienne replied quickly with a fresh blush staining her cheeks.

“Oh, I know, but I thought you might frown if I named her wench.” Brienne did frown. “See, there it is. I told you, you would frown.” Brienne rolled her eyes but her mouth softened. 

Walton called down the line that they would stop to rest and Jaime was glad to see that Brienne, dismissing her irritation, led her mare off towards a grove of trees at the side of the road. They’d started taking their breaks together during the second day of riding, as well as their meals, and he didn’t want her to get so frustrated that she abandoned him to the chainless maester or the young lovers. Especially so close to their journey’s end. Normally Brienne would eat quietly, occasionally telling him stories about Tarth and her time with Renly’s guard when pressed. Jaime would tell her about King’s Landing, Tyrion (a subject she was unusually fond of), and subtly attempt to sway her away from Catelyn Stark. 

As of yet, it was a fruitless effort, although he had made a bit of headway when they’d stopped at a roadside in on the fourth day of their ride. The innkeeper, not recognizing the shaggy haired man and his tall companion as the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth, had said a few things to them he might otherwise have kept to himself. “Nearly stabbed the King, he did, after he called for the bedding. They said King Joffrey was so furious he turned black as a plum. Can you believe?”

“No, I can’t,” said Jaime, leadingly. He’d known, of course, the reason for Tyrion’s fury. His brother had a softness that his siblings didn’t possess. He’d known Tyrion would have despised having Sansa endure the bedding ceremony. Still, he asked the innkeeper for Brienne’s benefit. “Why do you think he would do that?”

“I don’t rightly know,” the innkeeper said, “but the dwarf threatened the King, said that he would be fucking the Tyrell girl with a wooden cock on their wedding night if there was a bedding.” 

_Foolish little brother_ , he remembered thinking. _You are too fond of broken Starks. First the bastard, then the one your brother crippled, and now your wife._

“What happened?” Brienne had been breathless and Jaime saw the concern plain in her eyes. It hadn’t mattered that she hadn’t seen Tyrion in over 20 years, or that he had been nothing more than a squalling toddler when last she’d set eyes on him. 

“There was no bedding and the King let them go off themselves. The dwarf was piss drunk to hear the squires tell it but one of my girls said she heard there was cause for new sheets in the maid’s chamber. I reckon the Stark girl’ll have a lion in her belly soon enough.”

He remembered the way she’d bitten her lip and let her gaze drop to the table after the innkeeper moved on to another group of travelers. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking but later that night, in the room they shared, she confessed that she hoped Sansa was happy. Jaime spoke of his brother late into the night, both to comfort and confuse her. He told her about all the books Tyrion was constantly reading, his fantastic obsession with dragons when he was a youth, and about his appointment as master of cisterns in Casterly Rock. They laughed hard, horns of ale forgotten on the table beside their bed, as he recounted for her the many scrapes his little brother managed to get himself into at the Rock. As they prepared for bed that night, him on the floor and her in the bed, he made a decision. The fire was dying and when he crouched before it to stir the embers he sighed. “I’ll be happy to tell him of my captivity when we reach King’s Landing. I think our journey with the goat might even rival his tales of the Vale.”

“The Vale?”

“The Vale of Arryn, where the ladies Stark and Arryn held him. He was in a sky cell for days.” He’d waited for her to respond but when she was silent he continued. “Have you seen the sky cells, my lady? They’re rooms with only three walls, cut into the side of the Eyrie. They say if you’re left in a sky cell long enough you’ll go mad and jump.” 

He listened as she took a deep and shuddering breath. He’d almost been able to feel the weight of her vows pressing down on her, the way his pressed down on him. For a second he had been tempted to stand and go to her, to offer some comfort. Instead, he’d stayed still. He had to make her doubt her lady, to see that Lady Catelyn was not perfect.

Her voice was soft when she finally spoke. The room was lit only by the fire in the grate by then and Jaime had been nearing sleep on his pallet on the floor. “Lady Catelyn said his champion cheated during his trial.”

“Can you cheat the gods?” He’d rasped in the dark.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think Tyrion could have a crippled child killed?” He’d purposefully hardened his voice. He was desperate and he needed her to know just how much. After her oath was fulfilled Jaime _needed_ her to return to him.

“I don’t know.” Her voice had been tight and unsure. Jaime was able to tell that she didn’t want Tyrion to be capable of ordering Bran Stark’s murder any more than she wanted him to be capable of pushing the boy from a tower window. The difference was that Jaime was capable, but his brother was not. 

“I do. He was innocent, Brienne. Lady Catelyn was wrong,” he’d pressed his head back into his makeshift pillow and closed his eyes. “Tyrion is not me.”

In the days that followed Brienne rarely spoke of Lady Catelyn and when she did, he noted that she did so with less admiration and more hesitancy. 

“Glad to see you haven’t forsaken me, my Lady,” Jaime called as his dray cantered towards Brienne, who was already removing her packs from her mare. The horse, once free, wandered off to graze and Brienne finally gave him her attention. 

“I promised to get you to King’s Landing. It would be foolish to forsake you now, Ser, so close to our end.”

“Is that all I am to you?” he joked as he released his beast to graze with her mare, “An oath and an end?”

“It is,” she replied with a small smile, tossing an oatcake at him. Jaime deftly caught it and sat beside her on the log she claimed for her resting place. He noticed there were a number of logs strewn about their particular clearing, but she’d chosen one big enough for two. 

He leaned in close and whispered across her ear, “We both know that’s not true, sweetling,” before taking a healthy bite of his provision. She sighed with exaggeration and nudged him in the shoulder but he ignored it, choosing to revel in the shiver he felt pass through her before she gathered her wits about her. “Wench.”

“Idiot.” 

“What else have you got in that saddle bag?”

She bent her blonde head and rifled around in the bag at her leg. “Dried fish, a few carrots.”

“Give over the fish, leave the carrots for the horses.” Dried fish was a bit of an acquired taste but Jaime was fairly used to fish, having grown up on the rocky crags on the coast of the Westerlands. It was also a staple in King’s Landing as well, so dried fish was a common staple for the knights of the capitol. She handed over a few pieces, keeping some for herself. Brienne was also acquainted with coastal eating, having grown up on the much prettier eastern coast, across the Narrow Sea from Pentos and Myr and the other exotic locales of Essos. Beyond Casterly Rock lay nothing but brackish water and the vast emptiness of the Sunset Sea. The water there was always cold and always green as it dashed itself upon the rocky shoreline. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: what sort of place is Tarth? I know it’s a small island in the Narrow Sea and I know its waters are the reason it’s called the Sapphire Isle, but I know little beyond that.”

Brienne looked surprised at his line of inquiry, but recovered quicker than usual, most likely for love of the subject. “It’s small, that’s true, but it’s beautiful and felt big in my youth. The waters are bluer than even the sapphires they’re named for, and always warm. The Narrow Sea is never as cold as the Sunset Sea, and the fish are more brightly colored than the gems of any lady in Westeros. The shores aren’t rocky like Lannisport; instead they’re covered with soft white sand, bleached from the sun, and warm to the touch more often than not. If you’re wet, it sticks to the bottom of your feet like a slipper. In from the shore there’s sparse woods and small game, though the island is too small to support larger animals. My father’s hall sits to the west of the island, overlooking the straits, and beyond that there are vales and, further west, snow-capped mountains with cool streams and waterfalls running down from the precipices.”

“It sounds a paradise. I wonder why you left.”

“The journey to Casterly Rock was the first time I left Tarth. I was very young and did not want to go. My father took me aside as we were leaving and told me, ‘Brienne, the world is a book and those who never leave home read only one page.’” Her eyes were looking far off at the dusty road and yellowing grasses as she spoke. Jaime quickly turned away from his examination of the freckles across her cheeks when she focused her gaze back on him. “I did miss it. I do miss it. Do you miss the Rock?”

“There is a charm to Lannisport, but I confess I don’t miss it. I do miss Casterly Rock, but not for the scenery. I miss the Stone Garden and the Hall of Heroes. I miss the Yard and I miss the fairs. Do you remember the fairs, Brienne? Did you have any travelling spectacles in Tarth like we did in the Westerlands?”

“The Stormlands did, and Storm’s End, but never Evenfall. I never went to them. The only fairs I went to were with you.”

“I loved the fair, the foreign feeling of freedom. There were mummer’s jousts, exotic food. We even had our fortunes told at the festival my father held for King Aerys’ visit to the Westerlands, do you remember? Maggy the Frog, she was called.”

The memories were flooding back into his mind as though it were only yesterday. Galladon had already been gone two turns of the moon and Brienne was just starting to sleep through the night again. Cersei had gone to the travelling fair with her little friend. _Melara, was it?_ Cersei requested her fortune be told and the old hag displeased her in some way, though she never did tell Jaime what the woman said. In a fit of rage, she charged Jaime with slaying the woman. She begged him, made him feel guilty for favoring Brienne, and so he agreed to kill the fortune teller for her. It had been foolish of him but he was young, not one and ten at the time. He left her and went to bed, taking Brienne with him, behaving as usual with the intent to sneak away in the night and slaughter the woman who had upset his sweet sister.

“I do, but I seem to remember it wrong.” Brienne frowned and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and creasing her brow. “It was late wasn’t it? I remember it being so dark. Why was it so dark?” 

“We snuck in, well after everyone retired. I meant to go alone but when I stirred you woke up and insisted on coming along. I couldn’t leave you behind; you wouldn’t allow it.”

“Why?” She asked the question whilst unconsciously moving closer to him and tilting her head the same way she did as a child when he told her a story. 

“Because you couldn’t bear to be without me. It was much the same as it is now.” He only said it to redden her face and offset his own embarrassment at the recollection. It did not work. She merely rolled her eyes. _She is becoming too at ease with me,_ he thought sourly. One of his great pleasures was discomfiting her. 

“I meant, as you well know, what is there to see at a fair after the players are all gone to bed?”

Jaime felt his face heat. It was a forgotten and unusual sensation. “I was on a fool’s errand, I’m ashamed to admit. You remember how ill-tempered Cersei was. You lived with her as well as me for those two years.”

“She hated me,” she said with a small frown on her wide mouth. Jaime fancied there was almost a shade of regret on her features. “I saw her little.”

“Yes, but you do remember. She was fire, brought to life. She and Melara, I think, had gone to the fair on a lark and had their fortunes told. Old Maggy said things that displeased my sweet sister and Cersei bid me kill her.”

“Kill her? For a fortune?”

“Cersei was not yet familiar with disappointment. She handled it poorly. Don’t worry,” he said quickly when Brienne’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. “You would remember if I’d slayed the crone, don’t you think?” She nodded stiffly, her provisions ignored and the hem of her tunic wrapped in her hands tightly. “I told you that I would take you along as long as you promised to stay quiet and hold my hand. You were so excited you ran ahead of me and nearly pulled my arm out of joint.” 

Brienne sucked in a breath and leaned forward, “I remember. I remember running through the underground cave; it was a secret way only you knew. It came right out by the docks, near the fair grounds.” 

“You hated that your boots were wet and I told you if you ran fast enough your feet would dry.” Jaime laughed. It was still funny imaging her running blindly, her braid bouncing hard against her back as she tried to keep up with him. “We wound through the tents like eels, you and I, and you absolutely did not stay quiet. You laughed so loud I thought you’d bring the guards down on us but no one noticed us. Mummers and whores milled about and music was still playing somewhere.”

 

Brienne nodded enthusiastically, “I remember the fire-eaters, from Asshai. They were spitting fire so bright we were both able to hide in the shadows.”

“Even those couldn’t protect us from Maggy. She knew we were coming.” The sudden image of Maggy filled his mind. She was a small woman, with black eyes and wiry, steel colored hair. Her lips were thick and her mouth was toothless, her gums red and fleshy. Brienne shivered beside him and he knew she too was thinking of Maggy.

“I remember how she looked; her gray hair and her long, yellow fingernails. She took our blood didn’t she? She pricked my finger.”

“That was her way, the blood was the price. I meant to kill her but she saw us coming.”

_“Ah, the white knight, armored like the sun.” She touched his hair and dropped her hand down his arm to the face of the girl who hid behind him. “And our hero’s shieldmaid as well, come to punish me for my wickedness to the unfaithful. Come child, you’ll not hurt me this night. Give Maggy your hands.”_

_The old woman reached out and snatched their palms, holding them upwards and staring intently at them. Jaime gripped Brienne’s free hand with his own as the witch examined him closely. Then, fast as lightening, she yanked their hands forward and pricked each on a needle sticking up from the center of a bowl in her tent. Both children snatched their hands back but it was too late, the blood swirled together in the bowl and the woman sat. The coins wrapped around her skirt tinkling as she did. Then the old woman smiled and lifted the bowl in her bony hands and tipped it up to her mouth, swallowing the drops that slid past her lips._

_“What are you doing?”_

_“Telling your fortune. That is why you’ve come.”_

_“No it isn’t,” Jaime said, fingering the dagger tucked into the belt of his breeches._

_“Yes it is, Ser Jaime.” Her voice arrested his movement and Brienne came out from behind him slightly._

_“He isn’t a knight.” He tugged her back but the old witches eyes focused on his companion._

_“Not yet, sweetling, but he will be. And so will you.”_

_“Girls can’t be knights,” he said with conviction but Maggy laughed hoarsely._

_“She won’t be a girl forever. She will be strong and tall, a titan among roses and tulips.” Brienne grinned at Maggy and Jaime tugged her closer to him._

_“We’re leaving.” Jaime turned away from the old crone, taking Brienne with him but a wind blew through the tent, flickering the candles and making his steps falter. “But don’t you want to know your future?”_

_“No. I know my future. I will be a great knight and Lord of the Rock.”_

_“A landless lord you’ll be and a King maker and give them golden crowns, but your name will be slayer. Together you shall fall, but together you shall also stand. Stone hearts will melt beneath red steel and the fires will keep you warm when the cold snows fall.”_

_Brienne shivered in the dim light of the tent and Jaime tore his attention away from the unsettling woman to kneel beside his companion. “Can we go?”_

_“Yes.” He grabbed her and lifted her into his arms. Even though she was a tall child, and strong, she was light in his arms._

_“Ever with grief and all too long are men and women born in the long summer; But yet you shall live your lives together, the_ valonqar _and the maiden of the Evenstar.”_

 _He swept Brienne out of the tent and they ran all the way back to Casterly Rock and by the time they’d crawled through the drainage pipes, skipped over the pools in the caves beneath the Rock, and made it up to Jaime’s chamber they were filthy and laughing again. They shared a bath with cold water, smuggled from the kitchens, and fell asleep in each other’s arms, damp but comforted._

“I’d all but forgotten Maggy.” Jaime took a bite of his fish and stretched his legs out before him. 

“I _had_ forgotten her. I wish she’d stayed forgotten,” Brienne said between sips of water from a skin before handing it to him. “Walton thinks we should reach the capitol on the morrow.”

Jaime took a long draught from the skin and met her eyes. They were arrestingly blue against the pink tint of her cheeks. “I should think so. Do you look forward to seeing King’s Landing? I don’t recall you having been.”

“I haven’t, though I’m not sure I’ll like it. Your descriptions have not been favorable.” Jaime saw the fear in her eyes, same as the night in Maggy’s tent. 

“You’ll be miserable, I assure you.”

Brienne gave a tight laugh, thinking it was a jape. It was not. “Are you glad to be going back?”

“Yes,” he lied. “Very much. Besides, it’ll be fun having you about the castle. We make quite a pair. The Kingslayer and the Giantess. It sounds like a ribald song.”

“It’s hardly worse than ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair.’”

He adopted a serious expression as Walton started towards them from the caravan of knights, most likely to tell them they would be back on the road soon. She opened her mouth to speak, most likely to rescind her words but he held his hands up. “No, you’re right. It’s my fault.”

“What do you mean?”

Jaime smiled. “I’ve ruined our entrance. How can they sing our song if all the parties are not present? We should have brought the bear.”

“You are the bear.” Brienne muttered irritably and Jaime, in a fit of good humor, grabbed her about the waist and squeezed his fingers. She shrieked and jerked away from him but Jaime was agile and went with her, his momentum pushing them backwards and off the log.

“Oh, am I?!” He shouted at her as she continued to make angry gargling noises somewhere between furious shouts and choked laughter. “Am I the bear? You’re not acting much the maiden!” 

“Jaime!” She cried, with tears of mirth in her eyes. “Let me go!” She growled. 

When he finally did, breathing hard, both of them had leaves and grass in their hair and flushed faces. Jaime felt hardly more than one and ten again. He noticed when he lifted his head, that Walton had abandoned his errand and retreated to the relative normalcy of his men. _Good man, Walton._

Brienne was breathing heavily and staring up into the green leaves hanging from the bows above them. “It’s time to go,” she sighed without moving. 

“Yes, it is,” Jaime replied, tucking his hands behind his head and staring up the slate-colored clouds through the leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, we barely got any where, right? I had to get some exposition out of the way before they got to King's Landing but....yay, next chapter in King's Landing! Lol. As always, I love your questions, comments, criticism and concerns. Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A old city, a new man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing, you've all been so spectacular! And a huge, heaping thanks to my beta, _valyriansteel_ , whom I would be lost without. Thank you for riding the exposition train, you have now arrived at your destination, King's Landing! Lol. Thanks again and hopefully see you next chapter.

Jaime had told Brienne that he would be glad to be back in King’s Landing, but when the city rose up from the horizon to greet them, he felt his stomach knot up. He had oaths waiting for him in King’s Landing. There was a king to protect, a Queen who had need of him, a father and a brother who required things of the Kingslayer, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. They would expect things of the Hand of the King’s eldest son, of Jaime _Lannister_. 

“Ser Jaime, I believe you are almost home.” Brienne’s voice was innocent, and he detected a hint of excitement, in his ear. When he turned to her he schooled his features into a smile.

“I don’t know what you’re so pleased about. I told you, you’re going to hate it. All the intrigue of court, and seeing what a debauched little knave Tyrion has become. Not to mention Cersei. No, I daresay you will not appreciate the charms of King’s Landing at all.”

“I am only glad that I am nearer to my goal, _Ser_.” Brienne’s brow creased as she spoke and he laughed at the dour look she gave him before she sped up to ride beside Pia. 

When they finally neared the city, watchtowers dark against a purple dusk, Jaime cantered his horse back up to the side of Brienne that wasn’t occupied by Pia. 

“What’s that awful stink?” The scullery girl complained. Peck seemed to agree with her, holding his gloved hand up to his face. 

“That’s the city,” Jaime answered conversationally. “Smoke, sweat, and shit. King’s Landing, in short. You’ve never smelled a city, lad?” Jaime cuffed Peck on the shoulder but the green boy just clutched his nose more firmly. Pia and Brienne were taking it in stride, neither one clutching her face or looking near as sick as the page.

“I’ve been to cities; to Duskendale and Lannisport. None of them smelled like this.” Brienne’s voice was steady but he could hear the urge to gag in the back of her throat.

“Lannisport. Lannisport is to King’s Landing what Tyrion is to Ser Gregor Clegane.” Jaime clapped Brienne on the back but she felt stiff beneath his fingers. He couldn’t believe it was only yesterday that they had been playful. _Gods, playful_ , he thought. _When was the last time before Brienne that I was playful?_

He thought of Cersei then. They had never been playful. They were needy, yes, and desperate, always. He was passionate, and for a time she had been as well, but those instances grew less as they aged. Their lovemaking was always furtive and fast, in dark corners and behind locked doors. But it was never, ever, playful. They never joked, or laughed, and Jaime wouldn’t dare tickle her for fear that she might send him away. Cersei was playful once, a long time ago. He remembered. So much had changed so quickly, but she had been playful before the death of Joanna Lannister, before her father took her to court. It had felt good to be playful, almost carefree. Jaime instantly regretted Brienne being there; he didn’t want her to lose her innocence to court the way his sister had. _But if I’d left her with the goat, she would have lost more than innocence. She would have lost her life_. 

Walton led them up a low hill, the peace banner waving a brilliant white in the dying sun, and up to the Dragon Gate. The monstrous red stone and enormous dragon carvings along the edges of the gate’s iron bars stunned the woman beside him. He watched, with a smile, as Brienne tilted her head all the way back to observe the gate. Her mouth was partially open, in awe he supposed. When they were on the other side of the gate, and dismounted to lead the horses up to the Red Keep, Jaime grabbed Brienne’s arm and dragged her from the rest of the men. It was only a short distance but he noticed Pia titter as they left. _Tyrion will like this one_ , he thought with a smile. _She is too observant by half_.

Jaime led Brienne closer to the gate, dragging his finger along the stone when he reached it. “These are nothing,” he whispered to her, gesturing to the massive, carefully carved stone dragons. Her yellow hair fell back from her eyes as she tipped her head back again to appreciate the sight more fully. “Aerys had skulls ten times this size. They used to line the throne room in the Red Keep. Robert didn’t have the stomach for them.” Jaime wracked his brain to recount the names he could remember. “There was Balerion the Dread, of course, with a skull the size of a wagon, and Meraxes too. They were not the only two. There were also Ghiscar and Vermathrex, Valryon, Vasovious and Arcanae, Vhaegar…and too many smaller ones for me to name. Aerys would walk up and down the throne room with Viserys, reciting them as he went.” Brienne had long since stopped examining the stone and her eyes were focused solely on him. 

“Where are they now?”

“They’re kept in the lower levels of the Keep, hidden from prying eyes. I would be happy to take you, my Lady.”

Brienne smiled widely at him, a genuine, smile. “Is the famous Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, offering to give a tour of the Red Keep?” Her smile was spirited and her eyes twinkled like jewels in a necklace.

“Only if my Lady wishes. As Lord Commander I do have certain duties. Standards to uphold, you see.”

“Do your duties often include giving tours?”

“They do when I see fit. These tours, however, are very exclusive. I only give them to maidens. You wouldn’t happen to know of any in need of a tour guide, would you?”

“Jaime.” The voice was breathless and more feminine than her appearance would lead a man to believe it could be. Jaime knew though; he knew the softness beneath the steel and leather. He knew the _woman_. Her tone sent a shiver through him that started at the center of his back and ran all the way down his legs. He leaned back slightly to examine her face, putting his hand on her leather clad waist. She was wide-eyed and blushing, her hair hung haphazard over her dark blue eyes and he hated that they were concealed. He grinned and pushed the flaxen strands from her face, gently tucking them behind her ear, in plain view of Steelshanks’ men and their riding companions. 

“You should cut your hair, my Lady. If it falls in your eyes during a fight, you’ll be at a disadvantage.” 

“Jaime.” 

He froze with his hand still tucked between her hair and face, and frantically scanned her face. Brienne’s lips had not moved. Instead she too stood as if she was frozen to the spot, or carved from cool marble. The fact leaked into his brain and sunk in slowly. Her eyes were wide and focused on something over his shoulder.

_That was **her** voice_. 

It had been so long since someone other than Brienne had called to him that he had forgotten the sound. He released her slowly, and turned to follow Brienne’s line of sight. 

Cersei. She was breathing heavily, standing beside an equally heaving gold cloak. Beyond them he could see a procession coming down Aegon’s Hill, flanked by the glittering cloaks of the city watch and a number of Lannister guardsmen. His father, two Tyrells, one of which he assumed was Joffrey’s betrothed, Margaery, and the King himself. Brienne gasped beside him and he knew she also saw a flash of bright auburn hair. Sansa Stark. She was walking solemnly beside Tyrion, her husband. The girl looked taller than he remembered and healthy, better than he would have expected. 

“Jaime,” Cersei called again, softer than before. “Is it truly you?” Her voice was trembling, from anger or joy he couldn’t tell. She lifted a pale hand, as if to reach for him, but she did not come to him. She never did, never would. He reflected on her once again, the same thoughts he’d had in Brienne’s chambers at Harrenhal. Cersei would never come to him, but would let him come to her. She would give, but he had to ask. Instead of going to her, clutching her the way he wanted, instead of kissing her, he stayed where he was. 

“Sweet sister.” His voice was soft, breathless. He wished, for a moment, that it was stronger. That he was stronger. That it was only she and him and no one else, that he had let everything burn so that it might have been only them left. He wished he was strong enough to go to her, in plain sight of gods and men, and take her in his arms. 

He wasn’t.

Instead he was painfully aware of Brienne at his back, and their family at hers, and the myriad obstacles that sat between them. 

“The gods are good to give you back to us, Ser.” Jaime turned to the gold cloak that stood to the left of his sister. 

“Gods had no part in it. Catelyn Stark gave me back, and the Lord of the Dreadfort.” His eyes weren’t on the gold cloak for long. His father came to stand beside his sister. 

“Jaime,” Lord Tywin said calmly, as though they had last spoken over breakfast. “Lord Bolton led me to expect you earlier. Still, I am gratified you have made it in time for the wedding. And Lady Brienne, welcome to King’s Landing.” His father looked past Jaime to the woman behind him and Jaime was unnerved by the action. He shifted his weight to block Brienne from his father’s view but his movement was for naught. She needed only take a small step forward to be beside him. 

“Lord Tywin,” she said meekly, dipping into a curtsy. It was better than any that he had seen her perform before and he was strangely proud. Lord Tywin must have demanded she learned at the Rock in her youth. Apparently she had retained the lesson. He wondered idly if she would only be able to perform a proper curtsy for Lord Tywin, under duress, or if she could execute one whenever she desired and _chose_ to do so poorly.

“How long have you known we’d been freed?” Jaime casually strode forward to meet the rest of his family, come so far to greet him from the Red Keep. Brienne moved in tandem with him, never straying far from his elbow. Jaime saw Cersei’s eyes flit to Brienne with barely concealed rage, but he ignored it.

“The eunuch informed me only a few days after your escape with Lady Brienne.”

“It was not an escape, my Lord, Lady Catelyn freed us so that I might exchange Jaime for her daughters.” Brienne spoke up, her words clear and without the tremor that he might have expected. Jaime couldn’t remember what kind of relationship Brienne had with his father; it seemed all of his memories of her were of them alone or with Galladon.

“Yes, as I have been told. I am also told that Lady Stark committed treason in the eyes of the Young Wolf, with you as her conspirator. Unsurprising considering your history with our family. I thank you for your service in convincing Lady Stark to release my son.” Tywin Lannister gave the slightest nod of his head and continued as the rest of the party reached them. “We are in your debt.”

“My Lord, Lady Catelyn’s daughters-” 

Jaime went to grab her hand in an attempt to quiet her, knowing Brienne would tell the truth, would contradict his father. Unfortunately Lord Tywin beat him to it by cutting her off as he continued. “Will remain in King’s Landing. I am sure you will be glad to know that the terms of the release you negotiated for my son are no longer relevant, seeing as there is no one to return them to.”

Jaime’s blood froze in his veins. _Very clever, father_. 

“No one to return them to, my Lord? Lady Catelyn is at the Twins presently, celebrating the wedding of her brother Lord Edmure Tully to the Lady Roslin Frey.”

“I am sorry to be the one to inform you, but Lady Stark is dead, as well as her son and much of the Northern host.”

“Dead?” Her voice was so quiet he wasn’t sure he heard her. 

“Brother! Lady Brienne!” Tyrion came strolling up, with a wry smile. His face wasn’t how Jaime remembered it. There was a large gash cut across his cheek, ending at a chink on the bridge of his nose. Jaime dropped to his knees and kissed both of his brother’s cheeks, showing Tyrion the affection he’d withheld from his sister.

“What happened to you?” He asked. Gripping Tyrion’s shoulders, he held his brother back to examine the damage. 

“They made me fight a battle without my big brother to protect me.” Tyrion was smirking and it stretched the puckered skin tightly. “My Lady,” he said looking up and over Jaime’s shoulder. “It has been a long time. I confess if I hadn’t known of your coming, I would not have recognized you.” Jaime turned his head back to see her and Brienne was looking in Tyrion’s direction but not at him. Her eyes were unfocused, as though she couldn’t see him, or was seeing through him. She was broken. All of her fire, her spirit, had been extinguished with a few words.

Tyrion stepped from his arms, abandoning him on the ground, and moved around to stand in front of Brienne. Jaime stood and observed the two. His brother stood before her, looking like a child in her enormous shadow. _This must be what it looks like to other people when Tyrion stands before me_. He gently reached out, taking her hand and holding it carefully. “I am so sorry for your loss.” He patted the hand awkwardly for a moment, but Brienne tilted her head and finally looked on him. She held his hand back and gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

She took a deep breath, her jaw clenching as she held back a sob, before she could answer. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Lady Brienne, please, call me Tyrion. We were crib mates for a time, before you stole into my brother’s bed.” Tyrion winked, but Brienne missed the joke and only nodded to him. 

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion.” His brother patted her hand again and laughed.

“I guess that’s as good as I can expect.” Tyrion released her and turned back to the rapidly arriving retinue. “It seems, brother, that your welcoming party in almost entirely assembled.”

“Uncle!” Joffrey’s shout was giddy. “Did they tell you the news?”

“Joff,” Tyrion interrupted but the boy-king barreled on.

“Robb Stark is dead, and his bitch mother!” Jaime felt sick to his stomach at the obvious joy of his son. He was a monster. Jaime had never felt so sure. Cersei’s face as her son spoke was strangely triumphant. Indulgent. He had never wanted to hit her before but he did then, with her son, no, _their son_ , gleefully recounting a massacre.

“They slit her throat, right there, in the feast! ‘Wolf pelts,’ he called them!”

“Enough.” Lord Tywin’s tone was unforgiving and Jaime noticed Joffrey reluctantly make eye contact with his Hand. “They have been informed, Your Grace. Now, if we might be permitted to return to the Keep, I have business to attend to. As do you,” Lord Tywin finished, pointedly staring at Joffrey with disdain. The boy looked furious but didn’t say a word against his grandfather. Instead Joffrey tugged his hand from his mother’s grasp, Cersei having snatched it during his excitement, and turned to stalk off back toward Aegon’s Hill. 

“You!” A voice broke over the reconvening group and Jaime was stunned to see Loras Tyrell striding away from Joffrey and his sister and straight towards Brienne. She stood dumbly beside him and Jaime, realizing she was stunned, quickly stepped in front her to halt Loras’ progress.

“Ser Loras,” Brienne said stupidly from behind his back. Jaime groaned. He was sure this would have to do with that mummer’s king, Renly.

“Why? You will tell me why.” Loras stopped a mere foot from Jaime, his finger pointing accusingly over Jaime’s shoulder. “He was kind to you, gave you a rainbow cloak. Why would you kill him?”

“I never did. I would have-” 

“Would have been right to, for her true king, but the girl is telling it true. She did not kill Renly Baratheon.” Brienne’s soft words were drowned out but Jaime alone heard the last half of her sentence. _She would have died for him_. Jaime wanted to turn to her, to shake her until she understood. It is easy to die for someone, but much harder and more honorable to _live_ for them. _Live, Brienne. Be quiet and live_ , he begged silently, _for me_.

“Emmon Cuy swore it was you, swore with his dying breath.” Loras stepped back and drew his sword menacingly.

“He was outside the tent,” Brienne protested from behind him, her voice gathering strength from her conviction. “He never saw. It was only Lady Catelyn and I with him when-”

“Do you claim that old woman could cut though hardened steel?” His voice was stony with fury and Jaime couldn’t blame him. It was clear Loras had loved Renly deeply, but it also didn’t make him any less wrong.

“No, not any more than I could, which I can’t. I know how mad it sounds but his gorget was sliced clear through. Even I couldn’t do that. I was helping Renly with his armor, and the candles blew out and there was blood everywhere. It was Stannis, Lady Catelyn said. I had no part in it…I swear on my honor.”

“You have no honor. Draw your sword. I won’t have it said that I slew you while your hand was empty.” 

Jaime had enough. He lifted his hand and pressed it to Ser Loras’ chest. “She has no sword, ser. Sheathe yours. Now.” 

Loras tried to edge around him to get to Brienne. “Are you a craven as well as a killer, Brienne? Is that why you ran? Ran with his blood on your hands! Draw your sword, woman!” He shoved at Jaime furiously, his brown eyes pleading to be released.

“Best hope she doesn’t or it’s like to be your corpse we carry back to the keep. She is stronger than Gregor Clegane, and better liked.”

“This is no concern of yours,” Loras said, shoving at him again.

Jaime grabbed the boy as he tried to duck under Jaime’s arm and yanked him around. “I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you arrogant pup. It’s my concern if I say it’s my concern, which I do. Now sheathe your bloody sword, or I’ll take it from you and shove it up some place even Renly never found.” Jaime’s voice was calm and dark. He was not so young as Loras Tyrell and had no need of shouting to make his point. 

Ser Loras Tyrell stepped back into the waiting arms of his sister and slammed his sword back into its sheath. 

“Loras,” Margaery Tyrell’s voice was soft and sweet as she held her brother. “Calm down, Loras, I believe Ser Jaime and Brienne. Don’t you? She cared about him too, you know that don’t you?” It was amazing to watch the two as they comforted each other. They had the same curly brown hair, dark eyes, and the same peaches and cream colored skin. The two might have been twins if Jaime didn’t know better. Jaime was reminded of what he and Cersei might have been like if, perhaps, things had gone differently. Jaime gritted his teeth in misplaced fury.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” 

Margaery shot him a warning look but it was Loras who answered. “I want her arrested.”

“No,” Jaime replied. “She is not guilty.” 

At this Cersei stepped forward, “Jaime.” Her voice was firm and her intent was clear. _Arrest her_ , it said, _arrest her and be done with this_. Thankfully her son seemed to also find his voice.

“If my uncle believes her, and my betrothed, then so do I.” He smirked up at Brienne and Jaime was unsettled by the glint in his eyes. “Gods you’re tall.” His own words, coming out of the boy-king’s mouth were more unsettling still. “And ugly. How is it _you_ know my uncle?”

Brienne opened her mouth to speak but Jaime spoke first. He would keep her as quiet as possible for as long as possible. King’s Landing was a pit of vipers and Brienne was a mouse. “She was fostered at the Rock; she was almost your aunt by marriage. You will speak to her with respect.” He was seething. Joffrey narrowed his eyes but kept his mouth closed when Lord Tywin settled his heavy hand back on the boy-king’s shoulder. 

“If you’re quite finished providing a show for the smallfolk, shall we proceed?” Tywin Lannister turned away from Jaime, leading the King with him, and the Queen Regent too. Sansa, who had not said one word during the exchange, turned on her heel and strode off, with her maid and Tyrion beside her. Even Margaery went to the King’s side, Jaime assumed to sooth him the way she had Loras, and left her brother with Jaime and Brienne. 

His blonde companion looked desperately as though she wanted to atone for sins she had not committed, but could not find her voice. Instead of focusing on Loras, she turned to Jaime. “Thank you, Ser Jaime.” She nodded, and he smiled. 

“It was nothing you wouldn’t have done for me. My father seems to recollect you fondly. Perhaps I can arrange a place for you at court.” Brienne let out a harsh bark of laughter. 

“As a lady companion to the Queen? I doubt very much that she would like that.”

“Ah, no.” He tapped his lip with his thumb, thinking to himself. “A place in the Kingsguard, then?”

“I don’t think that would be wise.” She blushed and Jaime knew immediately that she thought he would take advantage of the situation, that he might use his position as Lord Commander to… _to what?_ He wasn’t even sure what she thought but he didn’t dare respond because, even though he hated to admit it, she was likely correct. Instead she walked by him, brushing past Loras with an apologetic look in her big, blue eyes. 

Loras hadn’t moved during the exchange, nor did he look on her as she passed, but he focused in front of him when Jaime stepped into the space. “You would offer her a position on the Kingsguard?”

“I did; you heard me. She was right to refuse. She is too good to serve with murderers and oathbreakers.” He moved to step around Loras but stopped and rested his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, the wench does have honor. More than I have seen from you. And she swore to you, and to me, on that honor that she didn’t kill Renly. Brienne is not stupid, but she’s not what you’d call clever. Even my horse could come up with a better lie, if it was a lie she meant to tell. No, she is telling it true.”

“Yet you name her ‘wench?’” Loras’ eyes were red-rimmed but he was still sharp. 

“I do. You don’t. Understood?” Jaime’s voice was flat but the threat had not gone entirely out of it. Brienne had told him, on their journey to Harrenhal, she had fought and bested Ser Loras for the chance to join Renly’s Rainbowguard. He was good but Brienne had bested him and so too could Jaime. When the young knight nodded, Jaime released him and jogged after the retreating figures, up Aegon’s Hill, and towards the monster that was the Red Keep. Gold cloaks were flanking the broken group at a respectful distance but he would feel better if Brienne wasn’t walking alone. 

His chambers were exactly as he remembered them. The white stone walls were cool and moonlight filtered in through the casements to alight on plain white sheets on a sizable bed. There was a steaming basin of hot water in a copper tub in the center of the room, just as there had been one in the room he left Brienne in. She would be staying in the White Sword Tower, at his behest. Thankfully no one heard the demand but the scullery girls he gave it to. “It would not be a good idea to cross Joffrey, Jaime.”

Tyrion was perched comfortably on his large white bed, holding a glass of red wine. A mostly full pitcher was on the table, along with another glass.

“Thank you for your concern, little brother.” He poured himself a glass of wine, wishing it was ale, and sat beside his brother. 

“This is serious. You have something to lose now.” Tyrion rubbed his forehead, closing his mismatched eyes, before taking another gulp of wine and hopping off the bed to refill his glass. When he finished he walked back and stood in front of Jaime, who had leaned back to lounge and began untying his jerkin. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The _Evenstar’s daughter_. Did you think I wouldn’t look her up? Find out she was a real person? That I might think you made her up, if you didn’t _name_ her? You’re not that creative.” 

Jaime sighed. He’d forgotten ever mentioning Brienne to his brother, though he of course realized it must have happened at some point. “No, I am not.”

“What you are is an idiot, and a romantic. Come to think of it, you’ve _always_ been a romantic idiot.” He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes in thought. “That must be where I learned it from. I know I didn’t receive any lessons in affection from our father, or our sister for that matter. Speaking of our sweet sister, you look at Brienne the same way you look at her.” Jaime cringed. Tyrion had known, of course. His little brother was smarter than he and Cersei combined. They were three heads of the same dragon. Beauty. Strength. Intelligence. Unfortunately, it meant all of them were in some way stunted. “Gods know why, she’s not exactly of the same _quality_ as our Queen Regent, though I am sure you are privy to traits I have yet to savor.”

Jaime deeply quaffed his wine and held the glass out for Tyrion to refill it. “Traits you will never savor.”

“Cersei will take notice, if she hasn’t already. She is unkind, brother, at best. And her son is a monster.” 

_Our son_.

“Don’t let Cersei hear you say _that_.” He tipped his wine back for another drink.

“She knows.” Tyrion walked back to set the pitcher on the table and headed for the doorway. “Take a bath brother, you stink. And be careful tonight. Every stone has a chink, and these walls are always listening. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. You might want to procure a dress for your guest. I believe you’ll find Septa Donyse rather helpful with that. It’s good to have you back.”

He wished it felt good to be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, KL!! Hopefully I kept everyone in-character or at least in an appropriate approximation of in-character. I look very forward to the next few chapters. As always I adore all of your questions, comments, and criticism. They are much appreciated.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long walks and long talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, it has been two weeks!! I am so sorry for the wait, I hope it was worth it. A big thank you goes out to my beta, _valyriansteel_ , who takes the time out of her busy schedule to fix my grammar and give me numerous pointers in the hopes that I become a better writer! And a giant THANK YOU to everyone who reads this, and comments, and leaves kudos. You are all so, so, so wonderful.

Jaime cracked his eyes open and stretched languidly in the heat of the sunlight coming through the thick panes of his tower window. His bed and his Kingsguard white sheets were warm from the sunlight and his own body heat, cocooning him in comfort. It was the same kind of waking that he’d been accustomed to during his tenure in King’s Landing, but after his experience in Robb Stark’s dungeons, on the road, and in his chamber at Harrenhal, he appreciated it anew. 

“You sleep late, Jaime.” He shivered despite the warmth. He knew she’d been there but he’d chosen to ignore it in favor of savoring his ascent from unconsciousness, hoping that she would come to him and stretch herself out at his side. Likely though, her presence on the other side of the room was what woke him.

“You rise early, sister,” he replied, his voice thick and rough with sleep. 

“The Queen’s job is never done.” 

He sat up to examine his sister, leaning his weight on his elbows. She was seated on a low couch across from the fireplace, her back to him, as if she spoke to the dying embers of last night’s fire instead of her brother. He could see her hair pulled over the back of the white couch, a golden wave tumbling gracefully over the stark fabric. She was wearing Lannister red, as was her custom and the fabric stretched tantalizingly across the arm she was balancing on. Her shoulders were slight, slighter than he remembered, or perhaps just slighter than he was now used to. He absurdly thought of Brienne, her broad shoulders and thick, curved waist. Brushing away his thoughts he focused his attention back on Cersei.

“Queen Regent,” he amended her statement. 

“Yes,” she said, turning to him and taking a sip of dark red wine. “I am still Queen Regent, just until tomorrow night. Then our delicate little Margaery will be Queen, and our son will be her puppet. The horrid little rose has sunk her thorns in him, Jaime.”

“Your son. Don’t you think it’s a bit early for wine, sweet sister?” Jaime sat up, letting the sheets slip down as he did so, and put his feet firmly on the whitewashed stone floor. He saw Cersei’s eyes swing across his chest and he saw a flicker of want there, even though he too was slighter than when she’d last set eyes on him. After the goat, Jaime was lucky to have any meat on him at all. He shuddered at the memory, picturing with perfect clarity the flashing _arahk_ as it arced toward his wrist. Yes, he was lucky to be alive. Though, as he imagined Brienne’s eye glittering fiercely as Zollo fell before her, maybe he wasn’t _lucky_ after all. Perhaps something else had saved him.

“Nothing clears the senses like hot spiced wine. I have a long day ahead of me.” She raised her goblet in a mock cheer to him and he flinched at the harsh cut of her smile. _Has she always looked so mocking?_

“Didn’t Robert say much the same thing? I recall he was rather fond of spiced wine in the morning.”

“He was not wrong,” she smirked again, taking another deep sip. “Not about that, in any case.” In a swift movement she was on her feet, her long red dress flowed out and swept against her legs as she stood. She was wearing a metal corset in some parody of armor. _A battle corset_ , he thought, _how fitting_. He felt his cock stir at the full sight of her, willowy and golden like the rising sun. “I see you’ve recovered your pet in your travels. How sweet.”

Jaime’s blood turned cold in his veins and he felt himself frown visibly. “I suppose you mean Brienne.”

“I do.” She was not smiling then, instead her beautiful face was contorted by a furious grimace that she barely concealed.

“She is not my pet.”

“You’re right, of course, you would know better. She is a beast. Perhaps it is you who is the pet, _brother_. Just a pretty little kitten for her to chase after.” 

“Enough.” He stood fully, angrily pushing away the rest of his sheets and towering over her. Jaime was completely aware of his sister, of the breaths she took and the space she occupied, not four feet from him. 

“No, I don’t think it is.” Cersei’s voice cracked and her lips twisted into a sneer. She slammed the goblet down on the table beside the couch she’d been perching on and gazed at him with eyes that burned like wildfire. “Is _she_ the reason you were so long? Why weren’t you here sooner? Why didn’t you come sooner, Jaime?”

“It’s war out there, sister, in case you failed to notice. I got here as fast as I could. I _tried_.” She was shaking like the last leaf on a branch in early winter and he went to her then, closed his arms around her small, trembling body. The embrace was strong, and as ferocious as they so often were together. He had missed her so much. Jaime vaguely felt the cool metal of her dress bite against his skin but he ignored the sensation, choosing to sink deeper into the hold. “I tried,” he whispered into her hair, soft as silk against his chin. She smelled of cloves and the bitter, acidic pungency of old wine. He relaxed slightly into the smell; his naked body pressing against her silk covered one, with a renewed vigor in his naked hips, until she pushed him away abruptly.

“You should have tried harder!” She shouted at him, her face reddening. The color rivaled even Brienne’s frequent and intense blushes. His aching hardness ached all the more at the thought of Brienne’s kiss-swollen lips and glowing cheeks. He didn’t bother to hide his desire from his sister. “Father intends for me to remarry.”

Her words were like a bucket of cold water being dumped over him. “Who is it?” Jaime’s answer was quick, heated, and short but so was hers.

“Loras Tyrell,” she announced darkly, with a sort of gravitas he didn’t think Ser Loras deserved. After his initial shock at her declaration, her announcement of Ser Loras as her betrothed could only be amusing. He laughed then, a vicious bark that seemed to struggle against his throat. “You think this funny? That I am to be once again sold off like chattel?” 

“Tell him ‘no.’ Reject the match.” His answer was said in complete seriousness but Cersei only scoffed. 

“Yes, as that worked so well for Tyrion.” He reached for her but she jerked her wrist away from him, furious. 

“Then marry Loras, and we will cuckold him as surely as he will cuckold you.” He took another step towards her but she only glared at him.

“You’re so- so childish! Were you always this slow? How did I not see it? Or has spending time with your towheaded beast made you stupid? You’re almost as bad as Robert.” The insult stung as deeply as he was sure she intended it to.

“I cannot, it seems, go twelve hours in King’s Landing without being called stupid or an idiot by my family. Yes, I love you too, sweet sister.” The words were bitter in his mouth but he held them there, telling himself to remember the taste when his sister would next beckon him, for he knew she would. He was her white knight.

“I blame you for all of this,” she whispered across the void between them. At the accusation Jaime’s breath stuck in his throat. Her face, once so beautiful, was puckered and lined with rage and sincerity. He’d never, in memory, felt so removed from his other half than he did just then. Not when he was in Robb Stark’s dungeon. Not when he was tied to Brienne and riding across the Riverlands with the goat. Not even in Brienne’s chambers at Harrenhal, between her endlessly long, pale legs. “I asked you to be Hand of the King and you denied me. ‘Their days are too long and their lives too short,’ you said. Joffrey wouldn’t be marrying that little poisonous flower if you had accepted me. I could have made Robert release you from the Kingsguard, offer you the title. We could have ruled, you and me, like we always wanted.”

“I never wanted to rule, you did. Get out.”

“Is that all? I heard from father that the goat almost took your hand, did he take your cock instead, Ser?”

She was in her cups, it was becoming obvious to him, and not more than a few hours into daylight. She, who would chastise Robert for his drinking, was drunk before midday. In response to her words he took a leaf from Robert’s book and stepped towards her menacingly. “Leave me, sweet sister, before I make you leave.” Cersei didn’t flinch, she merely picked her wine up off the table and strode towards the door, head held high. When she reached the polished white wood she turned to him and allowed another sharp smile to slash across her jaw, exposing her pointed teeth.

“Shave for the wedding, brother, you look like a beggar.” Then she tilted her head, as if she had some great thought, though they both knew Tyrion was the one who most often had the great epiphanies. “Is that what you did to allow people to more easily discern you and our Big Brienne? Don’t worry. I’ve had a few dresses sent to your old bedfellow. The beard will no longer be necessary.” 

He stared at the door long after she had closed it behind her. 

Jaime banged into Brienne’s bedchamber without so much as a knock, but succeeded in only startling a maidservant fixing the Lady of Tarth’s bed linens. 

“Milord!” She squeaked, her mousy brown hair flying into her face as she stood up. 

“Where is the Lady?” He asked without hesitation. “Was she not here when you arrived?”

The little girl nodded enthusiastically. “She went to see Lord Tyrion, milord. He called on her early this morning.” 

“Thank you.” He nodded once to the girl and tossed her a silver, which she deftly caught in her pale little hand before giving a small curtsy.

Jaime stalked off through the castle in search of Brienne and Tyrion. His little brother had been right, Cersei was unkind. She always had been, though it had never mattered to Jaime because she had always been kind to him. When they were younger she would pinch Tyrion, and he caught her more than once pulling at Brienne’s hair. He smiled, imaging Cersei trying to tug at Brienne’s short, flaxen locks now. She’d likely find herself at the end of a dirk blade for the lark.

After getting changed, Jaime immediately vacated his apartments and headed to Brienne’s chambers, not far off and in the same tower. He was aware from their discussion that his sister was furious at Brienne’s presence in King’s Landing. He wasn’t sure what he would say to his traveling companion, what he could add to the already long lists of demands he had left her with the night before when all she’d wanted to do was crawl into the steaming tub of water awaiting her. He wanted to warn her about court, yes, and Cersei’s likely scheming he supposed. But hadn’t he already done that? It seemed his little brother had the same plan, given that he called Brienne away so early, likely to stave her off of doing anything that she might regret; like being in the same room with Cersei or Joffrey without a proper escort. He would have to get Brienne away from the Red Keep as soon as possible. He didn’t expect he’d meet much resistance there; King’s Landing would not be kind to her, he knew. He also had to discuss with her the attire that she would be required to don for the wedding of King Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell. The little poisonous flower, as his sister had called the girl. Yet Margaery had vouched for Brienne at the gate, had soothed both Loras and Joffrey. Had she smiled at him? At Brienne? He could not recall noticing but he wondered if the girl was truly the thorny rose his sister made her out to be.

 _Perhaps she is just a beautiful girl who wants to be queen, like my sweet sister, and Cersei is simply unwilling to relinquish her crown?_

He would ask Tyrion. Jaime had been gone too long from court to try to guess the motives of its inhabitants. His white cloak swirled behind him as he stopped at his little brother’s door, off one of the Red Keeps larger gardens. This time he knocked once before opening the heavy oak door. 

The room was small, with rounded walls and only one window way up, that allowed light to stream unbroken into the dusty little interior. Books of different shapes and sizes were stacked high around all the walls and on many of the low velvet cloth-covered tables. A large bed dominated the center of the room, with gauzy white draperies gently flowing around it and hiding the bright crimson sheets that were pulled over the thick mattress. Tyrion was seated in a small chair, his upper half twisted to look over the back of it to see Jaime in the doorway. He had a large grin on his face and Jaime couldn’t help but smile back when he saw the two of them. Brienne was sitting across from Tyrion on a stool, most likely the only thing in the room that would be even remotely capable of holding her. There was a pitcher of fig juice on the table between them, half full, and a bowl of plump, dark blackberries. Brienne and his brother both had purple-stained fingertips and their lips were the same shade of cerise. On Tyrion it looked almost like he was recently whore-kissed, but on Brienne the color was strangely fitting. It contrasted with her pale skin and her astonishingly blue eyes. She did look enormous beside his brother though, and wholly out of place in the bedchamber. 

“Brother, Brienne,” he nodded to them as he stepped over the threshold. “Enjoying your afternoon?”

“Yes, almost as much as I think you must have enjoyed your morning abed.” Jaime wasn’t sure if that was a reference to his sleeping somewhat later than usual, or if Tyrion knew Cersei had visited his apartments that morning. Brienne didn’t look scandalized, to his relief, so that particular thought most likely had not occurred to her. He was unnaturally anxious for her not to know of his visit with his sister. “I am sorry you just missed my wife. Sansa is off helping Margaery with her wedding clothes. Some problem with the tailor, I expect. Perhaps Megga has eaten too many lemon cakes to fit into her bodice.”

“Megga, one of Lady Margaery’s cousins?”

“Oh yes, nice girl, rather loquacious.”

“Oh?”

“indeed, she speaks enthusiastically about most any subject, Lady Margaery and Lady Taena Merryweather, Olenna Tyrell. Quite the talker, that girl is.” 

“And have you been sharing these secrets with my companion? I warn you, she has no taste for intrigue.”

“ _Your_ companion?” Jaime looked Brienne over as Tyrion’s perpetual smirk widened. Her face was rapidly heating, contrasting oddly with her purple lips. She was in a miraculously still cream-colored and unstained fitted tunic. It was worn un-tucked over light, doeskin breeches and on her feet were brown leather boots with gold buttons running up the length. The boots themselves went high up her muscled, well-formed leg and finished over her knees. “She has been my companion this morning, don’t get greedy Jaime. You know how I love my family. And Lady Brienne was so close to being a part of it, as you said to our nephew yesterday evening. We’ve had so much to catch up on, Brienne and I. Do you know the chief export of Tarth?

“No.” He answered, humoring his brother. “Giant swordwenches?”

Brienne huffed.

“No, but close. Glass! And she said you fought a bear, the two of you. I’ll have to commission one of Tarth’s great glassmakers to have a stained glass window depicting the scene put in at Casterly Rock. It sounds positively like a _fairytale_. Sansa will be unhappy she missed the telling. I was just attempting to convince our friend, terribly might I add, to retell the tale for my lady wife and her handmaiden. You must help me.”

“I will not. Brienne is a terrible storyteller,” Jaime added at the end, pulling up another stool and sitting on the only side of the smallish table that was exposed, the other side being up against a wall. He managed to knock over a stack of books in the process but Tyrion waved the clumsy infraction away with his small hand. “You’ll have to let me tell it to your wife.”

“Brother, if you tell it then the bear will have been monstrous,”

“It was!” Jaime interrupted.

“And Lady Brienne will have been in pink satin. You’ll of course have rescued our fair maiden all by yourself in a fit of gallantry. And after extracting your knightly price, a kiss from her lips, you’ll have ridden off into the sunset. No, Brienne must tell it if we are to hear any accuracy at all.”

“You wound me,” Jaime laughed. Picturing the tale as Tyrion had painted it. Jaime _had_ extracted a kiss, only it had been well before the bear. “I would at least have given Brienne a sword! I do know how she prefers to be armed at all times,” he eyed her boots, knowing in those leathery depths she had likely concealed a blade. “Maybe, a tourney sword for surprise.” 

“What would I do with a tourney sword against a bear?” Brienne leaned back, her eyebrow raised skeptically. 

“Be rescued, my Lady, as is the point of this tale. I, your white knight, come to save you from the horrible and lisping Vargo Hoat and his evil she-bear! Perhaps the she-bear is his wife! And he gave you the tourney sword so as not to offend his lady by throwing her unarmed foes.” Brienne’s eyes glittered with laughter and she smiled at him, her horsey teeth poking out from beneath her top lip conspicuously. Jaime couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at making her genuinely smile. 

“I thought I was going to hate King’s Landing,” she said off-handedly. “I’ve only been here a few hours but, I like it…I think.” Her voice trailed near the end and Jaime could tell her admittance embarrassed her. 

“Oh, give it time my Lady.” Tyrion’s voice sounded tired, resigned. “You’ll tire of us.” His little brother had always been prone to foul tempers. He was hardly ever angry, but like Brienne, he experienced a great deal of disappointment in his life. He could easily go from jovial to morose is a matter of seconds. “This room is small and dark, like its master, but you enormous golden things probably want to be out in the open, yes? Walk with me. Brienne, I would love to introduce you to my squire, Podrick Payne. I think you’ll like him a great deal.” 

Tyrion hopped off his chair and headed to his door, grabbing another handful of blackberries as he did. Brienne stood with Jaime, both of their heads nearing the ceiling. She was a mere foot away from him, close enough for him to count the individual freckles that trailed tantalizingly into the neck of her tunic and across the open plains of her collarbones. Once again he was entirely aware of her, as he had been with Cersei. He was aware of the rise and fall of her chest, of the moist breath that passed her berry-stained lips, of the hairs that stood up on her exposed forearms, matching his own from the gooseflesh that erupted over his skin. “After you, my Lady,” he whispered, sweeping his arm out and forcing Brienne with politeness to press against him as she passed in the enclosed space. He was not yet back in his traditional armor, and so he was fully able to appreciate the breadth and width of her body as she pushed by him, so much sturdier was she compared to his sister. 

Tyrion met her at the door and led her out without waiting for Jaime, knowing his long legs would easily catch him up to their pace. They walked in something relatively close to comfort towards the yards, Tyrion and Jaime regaling Brienne with tales of the Keep and historical tidbits that they thought she might find interesting, and gossip of course. Tyrion had much to say on _that_ subject, his chief topic being Petyr Baelish and the brothers Clegane, one of which had been missing since the Battle of the Blackwater. “And they fought like dogs, my Lady, the crowd screaming all the while and Clegane’s horse bleeding out all over the dirt, until Robert shouted at them to stop. I didn’t witness it myself, of course, I was busy pissing off the top of the world, but my wife related the tale to me, as she was sat rather close beside our previous Master-of-Coin.”

“You were-”

“He was at the Wall, with Jon Snow if I recall. Tyrion has a taste for the strange, you see, and couldn’t pass up a visit while in the North.” Jaime wasn’t sure what he expected but he didn’t think Brienne would stop walking to grill his little brother about the experience. 

“How big was it?” She asked him eagerly, “How cold?” Tyrion answered all of her questions patiently and, on occasion, with vulgar aplomb. 

“…beautiful, but I thought my cock was going to fall off, surely. No wonder they need no women there! And the ice cells, my lady!” Tyrion gesticulated wildly and with a childish smile that Jaime has not lately seen, finally living up to his title of “the Imp”. Feeling a surge of jealousy at being left out, Jaime interjected with his own tales of the North, including his brother’s penchant for Northern brothels, making Brienne blush and stutter just the way he liked. By the time they started back on their way, the yard was not far off, and in it were Podrick Payne and Tyrion’s sellsword friend, Bronn. The man was large and swarthy and, although he had saved Tyrion from a trip out the Moon Door, Jaime wasn’t entirely comfortable with him. He supposed, however, that Tyrion would keep his own counsel on his choice of companions. The boy, Pod, was shortish, dark-haired, and of a thick build. _A sturdy lad_ , Jaime thought, of no more than ten and four. It was a good thing he was so sturdy because just as they entered the yard he was knocked onto his back by his sparring partner. “Bronn, thank you for entertaining Pod this morning. How is he doing?”

“Well, he fights with honor. I’ll give the lad that,” he said as though he didn’t intend it to be a compliment, and held his hand down and helped the boy up, clapping his shoulder. With that Tyrion’s sellsword sauntered off, eyeing Brienne and Jaime with curiosity. “I’ll be on the Street o’ Silk if ya need me,” he called back with a wave. 

“The Street of Silk?” Brienne questioned as they went to meet Pod, who was already talking with Tyrion. Jaime smirked.

“Bronn and Tyrion seem to share a few choice proclivities, my Lady.” She ducked her head away from him and almost ran smack into Podrick, whose head was tipped comically back. 

“Podrick, I would like to introduce you to my brother, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and the best swordsman in Westeros, Jaime Lannister. Beside him is our good family friend, Brienne of Tarth. She is the only person in the Kingdom to have beaten him in a fight!” 

Jaime’s smile faltered. 

“You did not.” He rounded on his companion, ignoring the squire gazing between them in awe.

“Yes, I did.” Her blue eyes were shining darkly and her skin was rapidly returning to its normal pallor. She squared her shoulders, turning to face him square on, as he had her.

“That was not a fair fight! My wrists were bound and I was half-starved.” He placed his hands on his hips. _Defend that woman. Your win was unchivalrously done._ “I was nearly crippled.”

“You seemed to think none of that mattered when you challenged me. I was still a woman, don’t you remember?” she replied flippantly. 

“I do remember a great many things.” Jaime wondered if Brienne had told Tyrion the _whole_ tale. He bet not. “That our fight was a draw, we were interrupted when-”

“Vargo Hoat’s men,” she cut in quickly, hoping to stop him from mentioning their kiss. 

“Correct, shall I continue or are you willing to concede, _wench_?”

“A draw then,” she grumbled. 

“But she did have me on my back, lad. That is the truth of it.” Jaime nodded, finally looking over at Pod. “Who knows _what_ would have happened if the Bloody Mummers hadn’t happened upon us.”

Brienne’s returning blush was priceless and Jaime noted his brother eyeing them suspiciously, but he ignored it in favor of asking Pod a few things about his technique. He helped with the boy’s stance, guiding his elbow lower and closer to his body. Eventually Brienne joined in as well and offered to spar with the boy to show him a lunge he was not executing properly. Jaime retreated to the fence, Tyrion climbing up to sit beside him on the old wood. 

“I like him,” Jaime said, watching the boy nod frantically as Brienne spoke to him. His eyes focused solely on her instruction. 

“I like her.” Jaime didn’t need to look at his brother to gauge him, the sentiment was sincere.

“You always did.” Tyrion had been such a sweet child, smart and friendly. And Brienne and always been so kind to him, not like Cersei or Tywin. 

“As did you, so our father tells me. And of course, there were the stories. Battling old hags and saving rabbit princesses.”

“The hares at the Rock were never safe,” Jaime laughed, reminded of his and Brienne’s childish exploits. “Has father mentioned anything to you, about Brienne?”

“Only to fill in the blanks of what I already knew; that you were companions and that you were closer to her for a time than you were to Cersei. That her brother died at the Rock and her father broke her betrothal to you. And the whispers he heard of your return home. That she saved you. And of course, her many nicknames: Brienne the Beauty, Maid of Tarth, and of late, the newly coined _Kingslayer’s Whore_.”

Jaime gritted his teeth at the title. “The fucking goat,” he spat angrily at the ground. 

“Tell me, brother, how did she acquire her title?” Tyrion kicked his legs as he watched Pod get knocked onto the ground again and just as quickly hop back up, ready for instruction.

“She didn’t earn it, if that’s what you mean.”

“The way you stare after her says otherwise,” Tyrion smiled. “Like a mooning cow. I told you last night, you look to her in the same way you look at Cersei, or should I say looked? And while I admit the appeal is hard to see at first, she is rather unique. But then, you always saw an appeal in me as well, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Jaime was silent, contemplating leaving Tyrion and the fence behind, forgetting his brother’s words. It didn’t matter how he felt. He was a member of the Kingsguard, sworn shield to King Joffrey, _his son_. And Cersei would return to him, would have need of him to protect the King and to carry out her orders. He was her White Knight, her sword arm. Brienne had no need of a knight. She was strong and fierce in and of herself. She was her own knight, her own warrior. It seemed, however, that the truth was undeniable. He had become a lovesick fool over the ugly girl in the yard who was swiftly and repeatedly knocking Tyrion’s squire into the dirt. _When had that happened?_ “I called on her this morning to get reacquainted with your old friend, but I did have an ulterior motive.”

“You always do.” Jaime rolled his eyes at his little brother.

“I wanted to know what her alliances were. Do you know what I learned?”

“No, as you have yet to tell me.”

Tyrion laughed and popped a blackberry into his mouth. “Her allegiance is to you above almost everyone else, excepting her father. She was sworn to our late Lady Stark, yes, but her trust is in you and not the Northern host, nor Stannis, nor our King. I wonder how that happened, considering she hadn’t seen you in well over ten years.”

“Twenty.”

“As you say, twenty years. Your time together must have been interesting. She did tell me _some_ of it, though I doubt all.”

“I think you might need to rescue your squire; he is tiring but not like to stop her from killing him.” Jaime gestured to the pair still fighting and Tyrion dragged his mismatched eyes away from Jaime and to his huffing squire.

“Pod! You’re exhausted. Go take a bath and meet me in my chambers when you’re finished!” Pod nodded quickly and scurried off. Brienne turned and walked towards them, glowing from exertion. “My Lady, it pains me to part but my brother has just confided in me that this morning he entreated Septa Donyse to meet you in your chambers to fit you for a dress to wear to the King’s wedding.” Jaime was surprised that he had, apparently, been in two places at once that morning, but he didn’t let it show. He just nodded and smiled as his brother expected him to, playing along. 

“I’m sorry, but that won’t be necessary. The queen has already sent me several dresses and Tarth cannot spare the expense, Ser Jaime.” She looked between them sadly. “I shall make do with what I have.”

“Queen Regent,” Jaime piped up, wondering that he had to make that distinction twice in one day.

“You absolutely will not!” Tyrion added. “Knowing my sister she has sent you dresses in varying shades of garish and in sizes that a large enough to get onto you but that will certainly never fit properly. No, you cannot attend a King’s wedding thus, and Lady Margaery would be scandalized.” Tyrion tutted at her and hopped off the fence. “Consider it a gift my Lady, some small repayment for your helping return Jaime to us. Not the whole debt paid, certainly, but a small measure of it.”

“I can’t-” she started but Jaime stopped her.

“Of course, you can.” He put his hand on her lower back and began to guide her back towards the White Sword tower.

“And you will,” Tyrion finished . “I will not be assaulted by visions of ill-clad ladies at the wedding of my nephew. It will be a difficult enough affair to manage without that too.”

“Thank you my Lord,” she said to Tyrion as he entered his chamber, “and Ser,” she added, looking at Jaime beside her. 

“You’re very welcome,” he replied.

The rest of that day and the next morning passed in a blur of frenetic activity. He left Brienne with Donyse, a seamstress and septa from the Rock that had accompanied Cersei to King’s Landing many years ago. The old Septa was delighted to see Brienne, which the nervous maid hadn’t been quite sure how to respond to. Although Jaime enjoyed watching the interaction for some time that afternoon, before Septa Donyse shooed him out in order to get the real work done, he had many things to get finished himself. He left Brienne easily in the capable hands of Donyse, staying only long enough to request the Septa make the gown blue. 

After that he had to have his armor refitted and he had to work over the new additions to the Kingsguard, Ser Balon Swann and Ser Osmund Kettleblack. Jaime liked Ser Balon Swann very much, and found him worthy of the cloak. He was a good and honorable knight; it was obvious from their short meeting. Tyrion had also mentioned that Ser Balon was among the knights that remained for six hours after the Battle of the Blackwater, granting knighthoods to the men. Osmund Kettleblack however, in Jaime’s estimation, was not worthy of the title ‘Ser,’ let alone a white cloak. That led him to another issue, the death of his sworn brother Mandon Moore and who would replace him in their ranks. Jaime could attempt to elevate Brienne to the honor, but having her so near would be a distraction of the gravest kind, and besides that, the longer she was in King’s Landing the more likely it was for her to come to harm. No, that would not do. Cersei would do everything in her considerable power to cause Brienne trouble. Thinking of Cersei brought Jaime’s mind to that morning and what she’d said of her impending marriage to Loras Tyrell, the pretty little Knight of Flowers. He had honor, skill, he was young, and not likely to take a wife that wasn’t forced on him. He was a second son, unlikely to inherit, and he was certainly not going to be fathering any bastards in the coming years. _Perhaps_ , he thought. 

Before he knew it, he was discussing with the men of the Kingsguard where they would be for the feast and what their purposes would be and for how long. All, at least, were obedient. And then he was in his white-enameled armor, cloak on his shoulders, clean and shaven and preparing to head to the Sept of Balor. A knock interrupted his thoughts. 

He opened the door to his apartments and gasped. Brienne was there, only she didn’t look like herself. It was obviously her, but changed. Her hair was clean and curled slighty at the edges and around her ears, held back by a thick band of silver. Her long pale neck was accentuated with a single, small sapphire, shaped like a raindrop, on a thin chain. The dress was simple, as Jaime knew it would be given that it was made in less than twenty-four hours, but it was elegantly long and made with rich blue brocade. There were strands of rose and silver sewn into the fabric in the shape of diamonds the bodice was padded and cinched to give her hint of shape more definition. The cut of the neckline was low and off the shoulders, lower than he knew Brienne would think appropriate, though he could see why. In order for Septa Donyse to show off what little breasts Brienne had, it had to be low. Brienne was fidgeting at the cuff of her long sleeves and looking at him nervously.

“Blue looks good on you, my Lady,” he started, all thoughts of the Kinsguard forgotten. “It goes well with your eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always your comments, questions, concerns, and criticism are more than welcome! I always appreciate feedback. Hope you liked my first foray into KL and I'll see you soon! x


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feast with many surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gods have conspired to let myself and my beta both to have enough free time to get another chapter out quicker than usual. As always, my gratitude must forever go to _valyriansteel_ for all of her hardwork and encouragement. And I must also thank, whole-heartedly, all of my reviewers. I have fallen off the wagon on responding to your reviews but let me just say that it ends today. I have a couple things to do, which I hope you all like, and will get to those reviews right after! That being said, every review, every kudo, every hit even, is like a breath of air to a drowning man. You are all so amazing and talented yourselves, and your words are so wonderfully helpful and inspiring and encouraging. I couldn't ask to be a part of a better fandom.

Brienne was flustered but she managed to muster a returning compliment for Jaime when she brought her eyes back up from the ground. “The white cloak,” she said, reaching out to finger the fabric reverently. “It suits you, ser.” _Does it?_ Jaime thought that he felt rather ill-suited to the white cloak just at the moment, considering his thoughts were not of the King’s safety at his wedding but instead of what was hidden from him beneath her silk skirts. The thoughts were pointless as he already knew what scant treasures lay beneath her bodice. Regardless of her small chest and corded muscles, he ached to touch her, hold her, to make her gasp. It was not a foreign thought, but it also wasn’t one he intended to entertain. He had duties to attend to, and a King to see wed. He silently cursed Cersei. If she hadn’t been so difficult, and drunk, perhaps he could have had her. He might have laid her out on his table, hiked up her skirts, spread her pale thighs, and pushed into her. She would have been slick and ready, he knew. She was always wide and ready for him, even as she pushed away, she would pull him nearer. He might have ripped those delicate smallclothes she wore in his desperation and left her with sweat and his seed cooling on her thighs when he’d finished. Cersei might have completed him, so that he wouldn’t be thinking of doing the same to the mulish girl before him. So he might not imagine what smallclothes they had wrestled her into, myrish lace or simple cotton, or whether or not she would bite her lip to hide the grunts and groans of their lovemaking. He wondered idly if she might prefer to push him down, to ride him instead of the other way around. 

He silently cursed again and met her astonishing eyes, rimmed in coal. Another product of Septa Donyse he presumed, since Brienne seemed hardly the type to paint her face willingly. It seemed that the coal was all the septa managed to prevail upon Brienne, as there was no stain of her cheeks or lips. It was a service. Her wide mouth and thick lips would look wider and thicker with stain, and her cheeks needed no color but the ever present shade of her own embarrassment. No, the coal did its job, drawing attention away from the rest of the face and highlighting her sole attractive feature.

“Thank you, my lady, but I assure you I am still myself. Less fleas perhaps, and shaven, but I’ll soil the cloak soon enough I would think. I had Septa Donyse send you to me so that I might inspect her work. The dress looks well. Care for an escort to the sept, my lady?” 

“Are you not busy, ser? I thought you would be attending with the King.” 

Jaime groaned. Cersei had insisted, via note, that she preferred the King and her be escorted by that lackwit Kettleblack. A slight, he knew, but one he did not care to dwell on. 

“The King already has an escort, as does the Queen and the Queen Regent. I must attend of course, but not as a chaperone, merely as a member of the Kingsguard. Come here.” She did as he bid her, and when she was standing in front of him, he roughly adjusted the shoulder of her gown slightly. “Stop tugging at it or it will tear. Your shoulders are as wide as mine, I don’t think even Donyse could find the fabric to stich a patch this late in the day.” Brienne nodded once and stood straighter, like a soldier taking orders from her commander.

“Thank you, ser.”

They walked stiffly beside each other as they made their way from the White Sword Tower and into the outer ward, in the direction of the Sept of Baelor. People were bustling about and the outer ward was buzzing with activity. Jaime and Brienne were making their way towards the stable when Brienne nudged his arm, causing Jaime to look sharply at her and then to the stables at her direction. A large group of men were saddling their horses and Jaime recognized Steelshanks Walton among them. “Steelshanks!” He called to the man with a wave of his hand, “are you off, then?” Lord Bolton’s commander wheeled around and nodded to Jaime and Brienne. 

“Aye, as soon as m’lady is mounted. My Lord Bolton expects us.” Brienne, he knew, was frowning beside him. She would have worked out by now that Lord Bolton was partially responsible for the Red Wedding, that his father and Roose Bolton and Walder Frey had orchestrated the death of her beloved Lady Catelyn. 

A groom led a fine grey mare from the stables, and on its back sat a sad little girl, swaying in the saddle. Her brown hair was braided but bits of it blew wild around her face, and her hollow eyes were as grey as the horse beneath her, as grey as the heavy cloak she wore, and as grey as the dress beneath it trimmed in white satin. The cloak on her shoulders was held by a silver clasp wrought in the shape of a wolf’s head, the slitted yellow eyes were inset with gemstones. When the girl saw him she inclined her head. “There she is now,” Steelshanks said, gesturing to the girl, “the Lady Arya Stark.”

“Ser Jaime, it is good of you to see me off.” _Not Arya Stark, then,_ he thought. He remembered Arya Stark, not well but well enough to know the girl was small, dark, and impolite. Also, this girl seemed older than he thought the youngest Stark girl would be, closer to Sansa’s age than Arya’s. Jaime reached a hand to Brienne and squeezed her fingers, tightly. His aim was to hurt her, to warn her off speaking to the imposter girl. She stayed silent and her hand went limp in his. “You are kind to see me off,” the girl said to him again, in a thin, anxious voice. 

“You know me?” He heard Brienne take a breath but he squeezed her hand again, imploring her to stay silent. His father must not hearhere of this incident. Jaime would give Lord Tywin no reason to be concerned that Brienne might do something stupid in regards to the Stark girls. 

“Yes, I was quite little when last we met, but I had the honor when you accompanied King Robert on his visit to my father Lord Eddard at Winterfell.”

“She’s to be married,” Steelshanks cut in and Brienne’s limp hand suddenly rushed to life beneath his fingers and squeezed back. 

“I am to wed Lord Bolton’s son, Ramsay. He used to be a Snow, but His Grace, King Joffrey, has made him a Bolton. They say he is very brave. I am so happy.” Her voice was quivering when she spoke, and her eyes darted from him to Brienne rapidly.

 _Then why do you sound so frightened?_

“I’m sorry, I’ve not introduced you. Lady Arya, this is my companion, the Lady Brienne of Tarth. Lady Brienne, this is Lady Catelyn’s youngest daughter, Lady Arya Stark.” He turned to her as he was making the introduction and tried to shake his head as imperceptibly as possible. _Not Arya_ , he tried to tell her. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Arya.” The girl smiled thinly at Brienne, devoid of any true emotion. 

“And you, Lady Brienne.” He thought his companion might speak again but after a pause he called the girl’s attention back to himself. 

“We wish you joy, my Lady. Don’t we Brienne?” She nodded beside him and smiled gently at Not-Arya.

“Yes, joy and happiness, my lady.” The frightened little girl nodded her thanks before the groom led her towards the line of men that were forming at the gate. 

“You have the coin you were promised?”

“Aye,” Walton tipped his head to the pair before he followed after the groom and his highborn charge. “A Lannister always pays his debts.”

“Always,” Jaime replied softly, knowing only Brienne would hear him. When he finally looked at her, Brienne’s face was pale. Her hand was shaking in his, but he was glad that she had understood him and kept quiet. 

“That was not Arya Stark?” Her voice was quiet, but hard. “Arya Stark is not here.”

“No. My father found a little northern girl with near the same coloring and is sending her off to wed Bolton’s bastard. I’m sorry. I will find out what I can, but be assured, that was not Arya Stark.” He could see the wheels running in that thick skull of hers and Jaime found it almost endearing. He brushed a curl absently from the base of her neck, causing her to shiver and refocus on him.

“When Lord Bolton finds out your father paid him with false coin, will he not be angry?”

“He knows, Brienne. I don’t know where Arya Stark is, but if my father had her than he would have sent her. If he doesn’t, then she died in the keep under his orders or is missing. I am inclined to think my father would not murder a child, so I assume the girl is missing. If that’s the case, she is in a shallow grave in Flea Bottom. Either way, there is no one to name this Arya Stark a fraud. Her parents are dead. Her brothers are dead. Her sister is trapped in the Red Keep, under the thumb of the Lannisters. My father and sister would not allow her to speak against this imposter.” He thought she would buckle then, tremble and fall into his arms. He was wrong. Of course he was wrong, Brienne was _strong_. She had broken a little at the news of Lady Catelyn’s death, but she would not break again so soon. 

She released him, standing up straighter than she had on their walk from the tower, and looked at Jaime expectantly. “We shall be late if we do not hurry.” Her voice was still strong and steady, despite the pallor of her face and the remaining quiver of her hands. He wished he had a sword to give her, to make her feel more at home in her silk dress and slippers. Instead he gave her a small smile and a curt nod, taking her elbow when she turned back in the direction of their destination.

The sept wasis full to bursting with wedding attendees and Jaime left Brienne in good company before heading to his place. She would be standing between his brother’s wife and his aunt Genna. Genna Lannister is loud, broad and domineering. She was the only maternal figure Jaime had after the death of his mother and, if he recalled correctly, she too had rather liked Brienne in their youth. She was not often at the Rock those first few years, but she did visit. Her affection for Brienne was was one of the reasons his father had intended to honor Jaime’s betrothal. He knew, after a brief reintroduction, that Genna would watch out for her during the wedding and feast. Jaime was sure of it. He left them reluctantly to take up his position with the rest of the Kingsguard and to await the King and his future Queen. 

The service would be long and Jaime was forced to stand near his father, with his brothers-in-arms. Tywin Lannister had been foremost on Jaime’s mind since his return to the capitol, but he had avoided speaking with his father. With Joffrey’s wedding fast approaching, Jaime had gotten away with it, but that wouldn’t last long. His uncle Kevan nodded to him when he took up his place behind his father, Tywin’s eyes never strayed from facing forward. Cersei too never glanced in his direction, instead focusing her gaze on the great archway that Joffrey and Margaery would descend from and whispering an angry “You’re late,” underneath her breath. Jaime tried to ignore her and her chastisements, but he could smell his sister’s perfume, mixed with the ever prevalent smell of wine, wafting from her soft skin and hair. She looked beautiful in another crimson dress; he wondered if she owned dresses of any other color anymore or if she’d perhaps burned them all. Her hair was elaborately twisted about her head in a crown of golden curls, mocking the loss of her own real crown. After the Septon finished his pleas to the Seven for joy, happiness, and children for the new King and Queen, and the cloaks were exchanged, Jaime was finally relieved to be escorting Joffrey and Margaery to the feast along with the rest of the Kingsguard. 

Brienne, Genna, Tyrion and his bride Sansa were all seated well away from the remaining Lannister attendees of the wedding, at a long table against the wall. They were at a table of honor, close to the King and Queen’s table, but out of the way. On the opposite wall were the Queen’s brothers, Wilas, Garlan, and the youngest, Loras. His father, his uncle Kevan, Cersei and Tommen, and of course the King and Queen were all seated at the High Table with Lady Olenna, Mace Tyrell and his wife Lady Alarie. Jaime took in all these seating arrangements, as well as the arrangements of all the closer tables as he was taught by Barristan Selmy, to assess the dangers to the King. Jaime saw no suspicious activity from his usual place, behind Cersei’s chair, but he vigilantly kept watch regardless. 

His sister had really outdone herself for her eldest son’s wedding. There were performers from places Jaime had only ever heard of, from fire-eaters to exotic tumblers and girls who danced with bells and silk scarves. There were also seventy-seven courses, each one more lavish than the next. Sometime during course twenty-three, Jaime relented to himself and asked his sister for a dance, as they were wont to do at feasts. She refused him, asking only that he refill her wine cup. He ignored her, injured, and instead stolidly remained behind her chair. He continued watching the festivities, but with a wearier eye than before. 

“Brother, a bite to eat perhaps? The Dornish quail is delicious.” Tyrion held up a small meaty looking wing and Jaime smirked down at his little brother. 

“I am not hungry, brother,” he said, lifting his gaze and finding Brienne in the crowd. She was engaged with Sansa near a terrace window, the girls walking towards the open night alone. 

“You look peckish, are you sure you’re not _hungry?_ ” Jaime watched as the two went out onto the balcony, disregarding his brother. Sansa was dwarfed by Brienne’s tree-like height and Brienne looked all the stronger beside Sansa’s small, stiff frame. The girl looked near to falling to her knees every time Jaime saw her, and he wondered that she was still standing after the destruction of her family and a marriage she was unhappy in. Tyrion was kind to her, but Jaime could see that the marriage was near affectionless. Brienne looked almost motherly as she shepherded Sansa, her head tilted towards the girl gently. “I was just going to entreat my wife for a dance. Join me brother?” Jaime flicked his eyes down to meet Tyrion’s, but his little brother was neither looking at his brother, nor his wife; his gaze was trained behind Jaime. 

When he turned, he was met with a sight that chilled him. Osmund Kettleblack was filling Cersei’s wine cup. His sweet sister was leaned against his arm heavily, her breasts spilling out against Ser Osmunds gauntleted arm. He saw her cross and uncross her legs beneath the table, recognizing the gesture for what it was, a sign of her arousal. Jaime gritted his teeth and turned away from her.

“Lead on, brother.” Tyrion wound through the crowd easily, skirting the floor where two dwarfs were jousting on the backs of dogs, and made his way swiftly to the balcony his wife occupied with Brienne. “Ladies,” Jaime greeted, “good evening.” 

Sansa Stark’s smile fell from her face at their arrival. She had her mother’s coloring, auburn hair and Tully blue eyes the color of periwinkles. They weren’t near the astonishing, deep blue of Brienne’s, but they were pretty enough. The girl was pretty enough, and young; far too young to be wed to his brother. “Good evening, Ser Jaime. My lord,” she inclined her head to Tyrion and curtsied. He saw the look of pain that crossed Tyrion’s face when the girl addressed him so formally. 

“Sansa,” Tyrion responded, throwing away her formality. “Are you ladies enjoying your night?”

Sansa only nodded solemnly but Brienne smiled genuinely at his brother. “We are very much, my lord.”

“That is a shame then, as I was just about to invite my wife to dance and thus part your company for some small while. There is a bard that says his ballad has seventy-seven verses, but I would hate to ruin your merriment.”

The girl’s pale face was stony and unreadable. It was no wonder that she had survived her betrothal to Joffrey. She was as cold as the North itself. “I do not wish to dance, my lord.”

“Nonesense, all young girls like to dance. Though perhaps not with me. Yes, that might be difficult. Ah!” Tyrion lifted his hand to the back of Jaime’s thigh and pushed him forward. “My brother was recently turned down at the offer of a dance. Might you dance with him in my place, my lady? I am sure he would be willing, would you not?” Jaime covered his scowl easily, smiling for his brother’s young bride. 

“I would be honored, Lady Sansa.”

“Thank you, my lord, but I do not wish to dance.” Tyrion’s bride was almost as obstinate as Brienne was. Jaime smiled genuinely. 

“Well, what does my lady wife wish to do with her evening? I am at your disposal.” Tyrion bowed slightly and to Jaime’s shock Sansa gave a little, girlish giggle. Brienne was looking fondly at the pair, her eyes now focused on the exchange with a little smile on her not at all little mouth. He was overcome with the urge to take her in his arms, to make her look at him with such fondness. 

“I might like to hear that ballad, my lord. Do you think it’s very good?” Tyrion grinned at his wife and held out his hand, which she took easily. 

“Yes, I think it is about the Blackwater. You remember what a hero I was, don’t you? I bet my heroics will be totally forgotten, as will yours. Shall we see, my lady?” Sansa nodded and followed Tyrion from the balcony, accomplishing for her husband what Jaime was suddenly sure was Tyrion’s plan all along. To allow Jaime some time with Brienne alone once more. 

Brienne was no longer smiling, but looking out into the empty night. Jaime walked up beside her, placing his hands on the balcony next to hers. “The King and Queen looked beautiful,” she said finally.

“Yes, I fear Queen Margaery is too good for my…nephew, but they did look the happy couple.” The stars were bright in the sky and Jaime was reminded of their night on the ground, tied back-to-back, staring up into the heavens. Jaime tilted his head back. “Care for another lesson?” 

He felt Brienne stir beside him but he didn’t turn to her, instead he kept his neck craned and his eyes fixed on the sky. “A lesson?”

“Remember, on the road to Harrenhal? I would be remiss if I let your education die there.” Jaime turned to her then, with a grin, and moved slightly closer. He wrapped one hand around her waist and with the other he grasped her fingers and lifted their joined hands out and up. He used his pointer finger to extend hers, and traced a pattern of stars in the sky. “This constellation is called Brynhilrys and these stars,” he lifted her hand back into position and carefully traced another pattern, “are her lover, Sigurar.” 

Jaime turned his head to watch her gaze up at the stars. Brienne had her bottom lip held between her teeth and her eyes traced over the pinpricks of light in the sky rapidly, trying to see the pictures the maesters had created. “Who were they?”

“Brynhilrys was a shieldmaiden from old Valyria, who rode a fierce dragon called Gunnyr. But a cruel sorceress, Curwynne, who was jealous of Brynhilrys’ strength, locked her in a tower and surrounded it with briars of thorns as sharp as Valyrian steel, and poisoned. No one dared to try and rescue Brynhilrys and her beloved dragon could not fly without a rider, though no one was brave enough to mount the beast. Sigurar, a brave knight, hearing of Brynhilrys’ famed strength, honor, and courage, was determined to free her. He went to her beast Gunnyr and climbed up onto his large back, demanding the dragon fly him to the tower. Gunnyr obeyed and flew Sigurar over the tangle of poisonous foliage, to the roof of the tower, where Sigurar climbed down the side and into the window of Brynhilrys’ bedchamber…” Jaime let his story trail off, his eyes still fixed on Brienne. After his pause lasted what she must have deemed too long, she tore herself from the stars and brought her face back to his.

“What happened?” Her eyes were bright with curiosity against the coal liner around them and the pale freckles that fell across her nose and cheeks. 

“She pledged herself to Sigurar and, before they climbed out of the tower window to her dragon, he took her to wife right there on the bed in her tower chamber.” 

“Oh,” her response was breathy. “Was she beautiful?” He mouth opened slightly and her tongue, so perfectly small and pink, darted out to lick her lips. Jaime mimicked the action unconsciously. Their hands, still entwined, had long since fallen to rest on the balcony railing.

“I don’t know; the maester never said. I don’t think Sigurar minded whether she was beautiful or not, only that she was strong, fearsome and honorable.” Jaime tightened his hold on her waist, thanking the gods and his brother for the heavy curtains Tyrion had let fall across the balcony entrance after his departure with Sansa.

Brienne was stiff at first, nearly causing him to release his arm from around her, but she relaxed more quickly than she had at Harrenhal, easing her side to fit against his. Jaime was nearly of a height with her, and he used that to his advantage by placing his face very close to hers. He refused to allow her to look away from him, or at her feet. With his right hand he guided her away from the balcony and closer to him. Jaime cursed his armor then, knowing he would not be able to feel her body pressed against him, no matter how close he dragged her. She hadn’t looked away from him, not once, like a deer trapped in the sights of hunter. Her blue eyes, so astonishing in the moonlight, were wide with confusion. Jaime was happy to see them filled with something else as well, something much more to his liking. Desire. Her pupils were large, leaving only a ring of sparkling blue to color her eyes. He hadn't realized how badly he had needed to see that, to see that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He tugged her again, noting the strong and erratic pulse of her heart beneath his fingertips as he brushed his left hand against her neck. Brienne’s palms went to his shoulders when he pressed her against him, and he could feel her fingers clutching at his white cloak. He allowed her to muss the fabric, and granted himself permission to let his gloved hand, which had stayed at her waist, to roam across her flesh. Then her lips were before his, a hairs breath away and warming him. He wanted her so badly, and he licked his lips again, tasting her on the air. Blinking slowly, he held himself back. He wanted to savor the moment of hesitance before he kissed her, when quite suddenly her warmth was gone.

He opened his eyes to see Brienne’s head was turned away from him, towards the closed curtain that hid them from the view of the rest of court. The curtains, thick gold velvet, had the dual purpose of not only hiding Jaime’s almost broken vows from prying eyes, but also muffling the screams that were filtering in from the hall.

Jaime released Brienne and they both threw back the velvet in tandem. There was a commotion in the hall, all of the performers were still and people were jostling towards the high table. Jaime could make out his father, the new Queen, his sister and his uncle Kevan all bent over the floor. Cersei was screaming bloody murder over whatever was on the ground and Margaery’s face was pinched in distress. _The King_. Jaime realized too late what was missing from the scene, Joffrey. He scanned the room, noticing Sansa and Tyrion sat on the far side of the hall beside his aunt Genna, noticing Olenna and Mace Tyrell beside his uncle Kevan. He saw the Tyrell brothers, all accounted for, and the representatives from houses from the Crownlands, the few from the Stormlands, the Westerlands, the Reach and a large entourage from Dorne. All were accounted for, excepting the King. 

Jaime bound forward, pushing tables, chairs and guests roughly aside as he tried to reach the high table. The boy was scratching bloody ribbons into his throat trying to breathe by the time his father arrived, his green eyes bulging out of his face in horror. _He has my eyes_. Jaime knelt, and with a wrenching pull tore out the spoon that someone had dug into the boy’s throat in an attempt to dislodge whatever had stuck there. He tried to pry Cersei’s hands from Joffrey’s body but she would not relinquish her grip, even after the boy stopped struggling and the Septon began praying for the Father to judge Joffrey justly. His face was thick and purple, frozen in fear. He was only thirteen. 

Jaime stood, letting Blount and Kettleblack try to pry his sister from her dead son. “What happened?” He demanded. 

Olenna Tyrell was cradling Margaery in her arms, telling the girl to “be brave, be brave,” but Lady Alarie, the Queen’s mother, spoke up. 

“He choked on the pigeon pie, ser.” She had Queen Margaery’s cousins in her arms, and her face was pale and tracked with tears. 

“He did not choke!” Cersei wailed from the floor, her dress stained by the remains of Joffrey and Margaery’s upended wedding chalice. “He was poisoned!” 

“The king choked,” Lord Tywin said, stepping up beside his daughter and placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “The boy is gone.” Jaime watched as his father tugged Cersei gently back, but she held fast to Joffrey, pulling him with her.

“My son, _my son_ ,” she continued to wail into her father’s chest after Ser Boros finally managed to untangle her fingers from the dead King’s doublet. Jaime was strangely calm. Joffrey was his son, but he was also a monster. Tyrion had been clear that the boy had a sadistic streak, admittedly Jaime had long known. Joffrey was a danger to the kingdom, another Mad King, and now he was dead. 

“Maester Pycelle, see that the King is taken to the Silent Sisters.” Pycelle nodded gravely and exited the hall. “Ser Boros, Ser Meryn, escort the Queen to the maidenvault and see that her cousins are there. Guard the doors. Ser Osmund, see to the King’s mother. Get her dreamwine, if you must, and guard the doors. Ser Balon, you and I will escort Prince Tommen to his chambers.” He gave the orders so quickly and in such a tone that there was no room for argument. The men of the Kingsguard moved into action. Jaime scooped up Tommen, who was sobbing into the skirt of Taena Merryweather, and hauled him away from the hall. Belatedly Jaime turned to see Brienne, still frozen by the balcony. She was flanked by Tyrion and Sansa, looking stricken. 

He met her eyes briefly before turning away from her and heading towards Maeger’s Holdfast with Ser Balon, and the new King in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it!! Thank you for reading and sticking with me, we've got a ways to go still! Lol. As always all comments, questions, concerns, criticism, and kudos are welcomed and appreciated.


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vigil and Revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long! I wrote for ages to get this right and my poor beta, _valyriansteel_ , has a terrible cold. Thank you darling, and I hope you feel better soon! Let us all hope so because I fail at editing my own work. Thank you so much for reading this and sticking with it! Please enjoy!

The sept was quiet, save for the broken sobs of his sister. Jaime wondered that she had any tears left. Her face was pale and wan, her eyes bloodshot. Cersei’s hair, normally a cascade of blonde, was brittle and broken. She wasn’t eating. She drank only wine. The funeral had been held not two days after the death of King Joffrey, the First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Jaime stood vigil for the boy that might have been his son if he’d been allowed to be a father. 

Jaime was once again in his Kingsguard whites, his long fingers curled achingly over the hilt of his greatsword. The other Kingsguard knights remained the first two days, but by the third even Balon Swann needed rest. He had offered to return, stand vigil in Jaime’s place, but Jaime refused. 

“He was not your nephew.” _Son. And you did not kill him, I did._ Jaime might not have fed Joffrey the morsel that took the boy’s life, but he’d abandoned his duties for the possibility of a kiss. And a sweet kiss it would have been. He might as well have loosed a crossbow bolt into the boy’s skin. “Leave me,” he’d said, and Ser Balon had complied. 

“He was so beautiful,” his sister croaked out, her voice raspy from prolonged howling. “He looked so like you.” She raised her eyes from the bier of her son. Jaime could only see her in his periphery as he fixed his stare straight ahead. “Where were you?” 

He tensed.

Her voice held dark accusation, but he would not say, he would not tell her where he had been while their son began to die. The fault was his, and he was happy to take the brunt of the blame, but he would not have her punish Brienne as well. She was, _is_ , so innocent. She’d merely stood there, looking at him with those big blue eyes of hers, her mouth parted and her little pink tongue nervously wetting her wide mouth. She was a maid, and he had accosted her time and again with his hands and his lips and his hips. He was a man, yet when confronted with her innocence and purity, even with her ungainly gait and freckled complexion, he became a greedy beast. Never before had he lacked such control but in the first throes of childish love with Cersei, and now that similar impulsiveness had cost him his King. His Nephew. _His son._ He did not respond and Cersei huffed at his silence. 

“Oh, yes, I forget, you were with _her_ ,” Cersei spat. “I did not see you, but I did not have to. Do you think me stupid, Jaime? You were missing, and where else would you be but with your beast. And that twisted little monster, I’m sure he helped. He poisoned our son, Jaime. He lured you away with her, your pet, and he _killed our son_. He told me he would. He said my joy would turn to ash in my mouth.”

Her words were bitter and they cut him like jagged steel, sliding over his mind and renting his resolve. Tyrion would never do that. Joffrey was a monster, but no matter how Tyrion had loved or admired Jaime, he would never follow him in kingslaying. “Did he? And were you joyous, sweet sister, at our King’s wedding?” 

“No.” She sank to the ground and her dress, a creased and wrinkled sheath of black silk, pooled around her. “Do you remember Galladon’s funeral?” Jaime had to steel his spine to keep from turning to her. 

Her voice was soft and sad and he wondered if Cersei was actually recalling the service that had been held for Brienne’s older brother. Jaime had tried not to think on that day in his time with Brienne. The funeral had been scarcely a year after his mother’s, and it had been piteously sad. The boy’s little casket, made of a blonde wood that matched his long hair, had sat on the bier looking so tiny though the boy had been big for his age. There had been few people in attendance. Lord Selwyn had not even come, so wracked with grief he had been. The only member of Galladon’s family that had been present was Brienne, her little hand clutched in Jaime’s tightly. She had gritted her teeth as the tears tracked streaks down her face, trying to stop from crying out or sobbing. “Shhh,” he had begged her as the septon spoke over her cries and the crashing sound of the waves outside, but no matter how she tried to hold her trembling lips between her teeth, she could not stay quiet. Cersei had stood quietly on Jaime’s other side, gripping his hand in hers so firmly that, when he tried to pry his fingers away to swipe at Brienne’s tears, he had to use all of his strength to get her to release him. He’d knelt down and wiped the wetness from Brienne’s cheeks, kissing her brow gently before picking her up and taking her outside to the steps he and Galladon had sat on so often. If his father noticed, he had not said anything to Jaime. If anything, after Galladon’s death, Tywin Lannister turned more of a blind eye to Jaime and Brienne’s odd companionship. 

“Yes,” he replied to his sister finally, the sound of his own voice disrupting his memories.

“You took Brienne outside during the service because the wretched little creature was sniveling and sobbing so noisily.” Cersei swallowed loudly and leaned against the stone of the bier, pressing her face against the cool rock. “I left Melara and Jeyne in the sept with father, to follow you. You’d taken her outside and she was curled up in your lap on the landing. You were whispering so intently to each other that neither one of you noticed me, even though I called your name. So I came closer, to listen. Do you remember what you said?” 

Jaime’s mind tried to call up that day but all he could remember was the heat of the sun on the back of his head and her tears on his neck when Brienne buried her face there. She had been wearing a dress, a little pale pink thing. It was long and frilly, with fringed sleeves. Brienne had been so upset that morning that she’d let Jaime pull it over her head without complaint, the septa’s refusing to even try getting near the distraught little girl. He’d stroked her hair, burying his fingers in the small curls he found, and with his other hand he held her tightly against him. He couldn’t remember what they’d said, probably some nonsensical drivel about the Seven he imagined. “No,” he answered truthfully, with a shake of his head.

“You two sat, wrapped around each other, caressing and kissing and ignorant of the rest of us. You whispered to each other the most beautiful things. You painted a vision of the Mother so gentle and beautiful that I almost wished I had gone to her arms instead of Galladon. It was supposed to tear you apart. She was supposed to be angry. It was not meant to fix you together.” Cersei laughed, mirthless and dull. “I should have let them have you.”

A cold dread snaked through his chest, constricting his lungs. “What do you mean?”

“I should have let them have you, you beautiful fool. I was so angry Jaime. You were supposed to be _my_ mirror, _my_ twin. We were supposed to be together. But you were always with him, or her.” Jaime finally let his head turn, observing his sister crouched on the floor and baring her teeth. She had a slow, cruel smile on her perfect face. Her lips were wine-stained and her eyes appeared greener for all the crying she’d been doing. She was staring at him intently, through a mourning veil of thick gold locks, her long fingers drawing lazy shapes on the stone beneath her. 

“What do you mean?” He questioned her again but he already knew. His fingers reflexively tightened around the hilt of his sword as he met her gaze. Behind her lay Joffrey, still and golden in armor that looked like Jaime’s. The helm was closed to conceal the swollen purple skin of the boy’s face and one of his slender hands, in a black leather glove, had been knocked from his chest in his mother’s grieving and was hanging over the edge. It lay gently near her head, pressed against her golden hair, as though he meant to comfort her in his death. 

“You were so excited, always so excited, running ahead like you always did. You were so ready to jump that you did not even notice Galladon was nervous. He was younger than us, though he didn’t look it. You always forgot. But don’t worry, I comforted him. I told him while we walked up the bluff, boys jump from the rock all the time, even I’ve jumped. Just make sure you jump close to the edge, I said. The tide will carry you out to sea if you don’t.” Cersei laughed hollowly and brought up one of her fingers to tap at her mouth. 

“The rocks.” Jaime’s eyes closed slowly and he pulled in a deep breath. His jaw clenched and unclenched. 

“Oh yes, that is unfortunate. I failed to mention the rocks. Not that it mattered, not that any of it mattered.” She reached up to grip Joffrey’s hand as she gritted her teeth. “Galladon of Tarth was gone and I was made to marry an oaf anyway, and _you_ …” She released Joffrey, letting her palm fell to the floor. She traced shapes on the stones absently before racking her nails across the rock, her head tilting this way and that as the nails tore and blood smeared beneath the pads of her fingers. “You emerged from the sea and went straight to _her_. You ran all the way to the Maester’s chambers after they dragged the boy out, grabbing her up and refusing to put her down. You didn’t let go of her for a year. A year, Jaime, for a year you shut me out. Taking her to bed every night and spending all your days cooped up with her, hardly letting her out of your sight. We were together before we were born, we shared a womb, and you left me for that raggedy, filth little animal.” She spit the last words at the ground, curling her fingers, tipped in blood, and pulling them towards her making neat little lines of Lannister crimson. 

“You are talking of a highborn lady, sister, call her by her name. Call her Brienne.” His words were dark and Cersei lifted her head slowly, scowling at him as she did. 

“I will call her whatever I want, I am the _Queen!_ ” Cersei pounded her fists on the ground, pushing herself up in a scramble. She advanced on him in fury but was halted by the doors of the sept opening with a noisy creak. They both swung their eyes to see Ser Balon coming forward. 

When he reached the siblings he bowed first to Cersei, “your grace.” Then he turned to Jaime, “I am here to relieve you, ser.” Jaime opened his mouth to once again send him away but his sister’s eyes boring into him held his tongue. 

Jaime nodded instead, and smiled thinly. “Good man,” he said, clapping the other knight on the shoulder. “You have my thanks, Ser Balon.” He released his fellow knight and strode to the doors, not looking back at his sister and ignoring the itching on his neck, knowing she was watching him go. He pulled up Galladon in his mind, as Jaime had last seen him, with his straw-colored hair tinted red with blood and his eyes milky in his pale, bloated face. Cersei had done that. Cersei had killed his best friend, Brienne’s brother. She had killed him and hidden the truth. She had lured Jaime back to her with honey-sweet words and gentle touches. She had spread her legs and beckoned him, held him to her with grasping fingers, heels at his back, and softly spoken lies in his ears like sweet poison. She lied to him. She lied. 

Jaime tore through the outer ward, stomping through the yard and past the armory. He headed for his chambers but when he reached the door his legs did not stop, they continued to carry him forward. He barreled down the corridor, disturbing rushes and tapestries as he went, his white cloak snapping and swirling behind him. He burst through her door for a second time, but thankfully this time she was there. Brienne was sitting at her writing table. She had a quill in her hand but there was no ink on the nib, nor writing on the paper. From the way her head swung Jaime felt confident she’d been staring out the window at the sunset over the sea. She stood when he stepped in. “Ser Jaime!” Her shock at the intrusion was obvious, but she did not seem upset by his arrival. Jaime reached a hand back, closing the door behind him, before striding quickly across the room to stand before her. “Ser Jaime?” She questioned him, quieter this time. “I thought,” she began, but he did not allow her to finish. He swept her up in his arms, crushing her body against his and once again burying his fingers in her hair. Brienne held him fiercely, it was her first reaction, and he reveled in the scent of her on her neck as he buried his face there. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the skin behind her ear. She did not coo, or tell him that he need not apologize. She knew better. Instead, she merely allowed him to stay wrapped around her. He knew it must be uncomfortable, armored as he was, but she showed no signs of discomfort or wanting to disentangle herself from his grasp. He kissed her neck, tasting the sweet skin there, and ignored the shiver that ran through her. 

Cersei was right. He had grabbed Brienne from the maester’s chambers that day so many years ago, and he had told her how sorry he was. She had not asked then either what he was sorry for, in the same way she would not ask now. She had let him hold her instead, crumpled on the floor beneath the hanging spheres of the heavens and under the eyes of any who dared come near them. And when Tywin told her of Galladon’s death, with Jaime’s hand wrapped around hers, she had climbed back into his lap and stayed there all night, sleeping and crying in fits. For days and weeks and months they were constant companions, he would not let what happened to Galladon, happen to her. They played together, ate together, learned together. They would fight with wooden sword and when they were too tired to stand Jaime would drop to the ground, laughing, and Brienne would crawl into his lap and he would hold her there as they slept. He hadn’t let her be removed from his sight for an entire year, but it had not been enough. Lord Selwyn had taken her away and she’d grown hard and sad in his absence. Her septas and the little lordlings of the Stormlands had been cruel to her like those of the Westerlands had been cruel to Tyrion. He should have stayed with her. He should have dragged her away and hidden with her in the caves beneath the rock. 

He laughed roughly at the impossible naïveté of that particular thought.

When he released her she stepped back, blushing. She dipped her head gently before meeting his eyes with a fiery defiance he admired, “this is improper, ser.” The words sounded false and forced to his ear, knowing she only said them because she was _supposed_ to say them. He stepped forward and brushed a strand of dry hair from her eyes.

“Yes, it is. Just as sharing a bedroll from Harrenhal was improper, and bathing together was improper.” He narrowed his eyes at the scandalized look on her wide face. He found himself angry at her denial of him and let his words strike her as they had not struck Cersei. “Just as letting me into your bedchamber, and between your thighs, was _improper_. But then, you crawled into _my_ bed at the tender age of four. Which, come to think of it, was _very_ improper. In fact, nothing about us, my lady, has ever been _proper_. I would thank you to remember that in future.”

Brienne’s red face twisted angrily, “I looked to you as a brother.” 

“Oh yes,” he groused, “a brother. I treated you very brotherly. I was the sort of brother that was meant to marry you, to shove his cock in you night after night until you produced no less than four yawning mouths to feed.” He regretted his words immediately, seeing the way her brow knit and her face fell. He should not have lashed out. “Forgive me,” he said. “My lady, I have not slept in two days and…”

“He was your son,” she said softly, mistaking that his rage was over the death of that monster who’d sat on the throne. 

Jaime blinked and shook his head. “He was my King. Let us leave it at that.” Brienne must have sensed something in his defeated tone, because she nodded without argument. 

“Stay here,” she said finally, turning away and opening the door to leave. He thought to ask her to stay with him but after his outburst she had earned his silence. 

He sat on one of the chairs in the large room. All of the rooms in the White Sword Tower were well-sized, as they were chambers for honored knights. He leaned back, feeling his age in his bones, thinking over what he had said. He _had_ treated her brotherly in their youth, as he had treated Cersei. He cringed. _It seems I cannot be trusted with sisters_ , he thought in disgust. 

When his companion returned she had two large bowls of a thick soup, with chunks of meat and potatoes floating in it. She sat one of the bowls before Jaime and sat across from him, pushing the blank parchment she’d not been writing on to the side. They ate in silence, not comfortable but not uncomfortable. When they were finished he stood resolutely to leave, preparing to bid her his goodbyes, but she stood and crossed the space between them silently. Blushing, Brienne reached out and began unbuckling his armor. For a moment Jaime thought this was her quiet way of seducing him. Perhaps she was going to _comfort_ him, and he grew half hard at the thought. But her gentle disrobing of him stopped after his jerkin, leaving him in his pants, breeches, and tunic. Brienne led him to her bed and his thoughts strayed again to the many ways she could comfort him, but she only laid him down and pulled her white sheets over him. Jaime let his eyes slip shut, feeling the mattress, so familiar and similar to his own, give beneath him under his weight. 

It was many minutes before he conceded and asked her to lay with him. “My lady, don’t let me keep you from your sleep.” She did not answer, but her actions were enough. Brienne blew out the candelabra and, after kicking off her boots, and she lay beside him over the coverings. Her familiarity was soothing and he fell into dreamless sleep at her side, with his arm wrapped over her waist. 

Jaime stirred several hours later to darkness. The room was cool and familiar, but the unmistakable heat of another body beside him reminded him that he was not in his own bed. Flashes invaded his mind of the night before. He remembered Brienne. Brienne bringing him dinner. Brienne removing his armor. Brienne lying beside him when he reached for her. 

And Cersei. Cersei in the sept. Cersei laughing at Galladon’s death. Jaime finally let the horrible truth sink in. 

Cersei had killed Galladon…for him. 

She had told the boy, younger than Jaime, to jump close to the bluff and in the end he had dashed his head on the rocks and died. His sweet sister had let her jealousy cost Galladon his life. Galladon, who had been like Jaime’s brother. Galladon, who’d loved Tyrion and who’d played with Brienne in the rain during the long summer storms. Galladon taught Jaime how to swim like a proper fish, and to row. Talents he had passed on to Brienne, or perhaps she had learned them in Tarth, as he had, when she returned from the Rock. 

Jaime studied Brienne’s peaceful face in the scant moonlight coming through the window, wondering what her years had been like after him. She had features like her brother, the same wide mouth and horsey teeth, the same straw-colored hair. She was not a woman who could be called delicate, or beautiful, but her face was softer than Galladon’s had been. Her freckles were more of a dappling and her eyes were larger, with longer, paler lashes. He knew, even though the lids were closed in sleep, that her eyes were bluer than her brother’s had ever been. Galladon had gotten eyes like his mother’s, a murky blue-green. They were less clear than Jaime’s had been, but near enough that from a distance they might have looked the same. That was before, before they had bulged in his face and been clouded and reddened by the salt water. The guilt rose in his throat and Jaime had to swallow to stop himself from retching. He had dragged Galladon into Cersei’s path, and now he had done the same to Lord Selwyn’s last heir. 

He shifted, pulling Brienne closer to him in the dark, reveling in the sensation of her snuggling against his chest. Even though he knew her feet must be nearing the edge of the bed, she curled into him with her head beneath his chin. It was a parody of their youth. And just like in their youth, they would have to be parted. Brienne could not stay in King’s Landing, no matter who Jaime succeeded in bringing to her aid. Genna Lannister could not protect Brienne, nor could Tyrion, and Jaime’s father simply couldn’t be bothered to care seeing as Brienne was useless in Tywin Lannister’s political games. Cersei’s grief-induced rage would have an out, and Jaime had a strong suspicion that Brienne would be the subject of his sister’s wrath. 

No, she would have to go, and Jaime would have to stay. He could not abandon his post as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, not with Tommen sitting so precariously on the Iron Throne. Once again, he would stay and she would go. Back to Tarth, he thought, though before the plan was formed in his mind he knew it could not come to pass. Brienne would not leave without the Lady Sansa, and Tywin was loath to give the girl up. She was Tyrion’s bride and a Lannister by marriage. Even if he managed to convince her to leave Sansa behind, a feat he thought unlikely, she would only go traipsing into the city in search of Arya. Who knew where that would lead? Jaime was convinced the girl was dead, either by the hand of a mob, a vicious sellsword or errant knight, or even by Jaime’s own father. 

Brienne murmured fitfully in her sleep and so Jaime held her tighter, drifting in and out of sleep himself until day broke warm and clear in their shared chamber. Brienne’s sleepy blinks made him smile as she focused on him. Her eyes were open and innocent for a moment, a smile forming on her face before the consequences broke over her like the tide. She frowned and knit her brow, biting her lip. “Do not worry my lady, you secret is safe with me.”

Brienne inhaled a little, her breath hissing past her teeth. “I have no secrets, ser.”

“Oh? Then what shall we tell the chamber maid who is sure to catch us in a matter of minutes? I thought perhaps you would prefer her to think you afraid of sleeping alone, after having to guard your virtue amid sellswords and highwaymen, and that you found my presence comforting. Would you rather I tell her the truth? That you fed me, unclothed me, and lay me in your bed to sleep before crawling in yourself?” Brienne blushed hotly and Jaime chuckled at the sight. “You have naught to fear.” Jaime climbed over her, letting his body linger overlong above hers intentionally, his hips sliding over hers and causing delicious friction along the length of his morning arousal. “I promise to be gone before your chamber maid appears, my lady.” Jaime bowed and collected his armor as Brienne watched, still blushing, from beneath the sheets she’d snuck under in the night so as to fit herself more comfortably against his hip. 

“Jaime,” she said quietly as he neared the door, his armor clanking heavily in his hands. Her blush had gone and all that was left was pale skin and a small frown. “I _am_ sorry.” Jaime dropped he armor on the floor near her door, crossing the room in three long strides and sank to his knees before her. He grabbed her face in his hands and crushed her against him as he pressed his lips roughly to hers. He felt her gasp beneath him but before she could return the kiss he was gone. 

“Don’t be,” he said, standing fluidly and hoping he looked steadier than he felt. He retrieved his armor, and when he closed the door behind him he took a breath of the air outside her chamber. He breathed in the scent of fresh rushes and cool air, the damp stone felt rough against his back and she was still sweet on his lips. He had a suspicion she was still sat on her bed, in shock most likely, but he knew he had best move soon before that shock that kept her still turned into indignation, and finally anger. Jaime managed a rueful smile, knowing that might have been the last proper kiss he’d ever give a woman. 

Still smiling, Jaime made the short walk to his chamber and deposited his armor in its place. He called a chamber maid for his bath. He would clean himself, don his armor once again, and return to his vigil over Joffrey. The boy-king’s seven day vigil would have to end before Jaime made any definitive decisions. He was out of his bath and dressed by the time the messenger arrived at his door. The lad was nervous thing, and Jaime recognized him vaguely. “Lancel? Cousin, is that you?” 

The boy looked edgy as he wrung his hands together in the entryway. His hair was more brittle than Jaime remembered and his skin was wan and waxy. “Yes, ser.” The boy skittishly darted his eyes from Jaime’s to the floor at a rapid pace. 

“You have grown. I haven’t seen you since you were Robert’s squire. What has my sweet sister got you doing now?” Lancel blanched and Jaime appraised him curiously. The boy was sweating and his fingers were red from his twisting them together in his anxiety. 

“N-nothing, ser. I was knighted and-and have been made Lord of Darry, ser. I-I leave in fortnight with my father. Lord Tywin wished to speak with you, Ser Jaime.” Lancel bowed low, lower than necessary considering his knighthood. 

“Then he shall. Lord Tywin does not wait. Are you well, cousin?” The boy looked near collapse and Jaime wondered if his injuries sustained during the Battle of the Blackwater might have been more severe than he had heard. Tyrion said during their walk to meet Podrick, the day before this mess with Joffrey, that cousin Lancel prayed night and day. He said that the boy fasted in the sept and kept to himself almost entirely. Jaime thought he certainly looked it.

“I am very well, coz,” he replied. 

“Then why do you look so ill? My brother tells me you spent much time with Cersei after my departure, thank you for comforting her in my absence.” The boy looked ready to retch at Jaime’s words.

“I-I dreamed you’d come. I dreamed you’d come and know what I had done, that you would kill me for my sins.” 

“What sins are those, cousin?” Jaime tried to be gentle, not to laugh at the boy. Jaime knew a thing about sins. A soiled cloak was a heavy one. 

“I wanted to be you, seven save me.” Jaime smirked. _That is not a sin, but it is a mistake. You could never be me, cousin. And you would not want to._

“That is no sin, cousin, to admire your betters. But what do you know of sin? Not enough, not if you want to be me. I killed my king, coz. You are lucky.” Jaime’s voice lowered as he spoke and was a thick growl by the time he was finished. He grew tired of this piteous whelp. 

Lancel’s face crumpled under Jaime’s irritation. “One man may kill a king with a sword, a brave man. A craven will kill with a wineskin. We are both kingslayers, you and I.”

“Joffrey?” Jaime sucked in a breath but Lancel shook his head emphatically ‘no.’ “Robert?” He questioned after, and the tears welling in the lads eyes were answer enough. “Robert was no true king.” But Lancel’s tears did not stop. Jaime reached for the boy and felt skin and bones beneath his tunic, and something else. Lancel was wearing a hair shirt beneath his tunic and Jaime snatched his hand back.

“I…” Lancel twisted his fingers again roughly, refusing to meet Jaime’s eyes.

“Tell me, coz, what have you _done_ to require such atonement? Surely Robert doesn’t weigh so heavily on you.” Tears streaked down the boy’s face and his lip trembled when he opened his mouth. 

“She needed comfort,” he sobbed and Jaime cocked his head. _This is about a woman?_ He didn’t think his frail cousin had it in him. Jaime almost smiled but he kept his features still. _Tyrion_ , he thought, _will love this_. “I never spilled my seed in her! It is not treason if you do not finish inside!” He cried and Jaime’s face froze. _Treason?_ “I only gave her comfort! King Robert had died and you were captive and your brother…she feared him.” 

“My sister.” His voice was dangerous and steady. “You lay with my sweet sister?” Lancel’s red and swollen eyes met his as the boy reached out and gripped Jaime’s armored wrist, near collapsing. “Say it!” He shouted at the young knight and Lancel sobbed in reply.

“I wanted to protect her,” he cried dolefully. Jaime felt his skin crawl beneath cloth and leather and armor. 

“Did you force her?” Jaime gripped the lad’s hand on his wrist tightly, squeezing hard enough that the his cousin’s knees buckled. 

“No! No, I loved her!” Jaime released him and Lancel stumbled back. 

“Get out of my sight,” Jaime snarled. Lancel nodded and back away like a frightened animal. He looked nothing like a lion.

“I shall pray for you, and her grace.” Jaime glowered at his cousin as Lancel scuttled away from him and down the hall, stumbling over his own feet. _He wanted to be me. Well done, coz, well done. How does it feel?_

Jaime slammed the door behind him and headed towards the apartments of the Hand. Perhaps it would be good to face his father with a stomach full of bile and a mind clouded with rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter should just be titled "Jaime gets bitch-slapped with knowledge." Poor guy! Thank you for reading! As always, I love your comments and criticism and kudos! They are all appreciated. And please, if you've got questions, lemme know!! See you next chapter! x


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble starts with a "T"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo again! This chapter is heavy on the Tywin and Tyrion, I hope they are in character! Let me know what you think. Also, if you recognize, literally anything at all, it is not mine.
> 
> Since this chapter had absolutely no Brienne (sorry!!) I am including, for your viewing pleasure, a link to a wonderful sketch done for this fic by the endlessly talented artist [Smoucan](http://smoucan.tumblr.com/) . She very graciously did this for me during one of her livestreams, which I highly recommend. Without further ado, sleepy babies Jaime and Brienne---> [Here](http://smoucan.tumblr.com/image/58372848213)!

Chapter 16

Tywin Lannister is not a man you trifle with thoughtlessly. Jaime had always known this, he could not remember a time when he did not know this fact. Still, when Jaime reached the Tower of the Hand, he was fuming. _Vile whore_. He could think of naught but Cersei, her breasts pressed against Ser Osmund, her lips on their pathetic, withering cousin Lancel. His mind was beset with images of her moaning and opening her legs so that his weak willed cousin might invade her. The bile in his throat was made worse by the startling fact that he knew he had no right to his lover’s rage. He knew he was a hypocrite. He has thought of little beyond Brienne since he left Robb Stark’s camp and, even now, he longs to go to her and demand she ease his suffering. It’s a hollow desire, as hollow as the kiss he stole from her not two hours previous, as hollow as Cersei’s affections, apparently. 

The Tower of the Hand was guarded by Lannister Household guards, all in red and gold gleaming armor, who knew him immediately. They stepped aside for him easily, one holding the door open with a bow. “The gods were good to give you back to us, Ser,” one knight said with his head bent low. He ignored the knight and set to climbing the stairs to his father’s solar, pushing in unannounced when he got there. Tywin Lannister was sat behind a great desk, quill in hand, several sheets of parchment spread before him in an impressive array. He looked very busy, which Jaime was sure was the intent. Lord Tywin always wished everyone who visited his chambers to see just how _busy_ he is, that they sense what a burden their presence is and leave so as to not take any more of his time than he would like to give them.

“Jaime,” he said without looking up from his work. Jaime strode across the solar to gracelessly fall into the chair opposite his father, who finally looked up to meet his eyes. 

“You wanted to see me?” Jaime’s voice was hard when he answered his father, he couldn’t seem to calm the hot blood in his veins, but he tried to relax his features in a parody of composure. 

“I thought you might be interested to know the Qohorik who held you and Lady Brienne captive, has died. Gregor Clegane found him half mad with some festered wound in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. It seems he was injured capturing a bear for the pit at Harrenhal.” _Too sweet_ , Jaime thought. He could scarcely wait to tell Brienne, though he was unsure if she would find it as funny as he did.

“And what of the other Brave Companions?” Jaime leaned forward in his seat, a vicious smirk on his face.

“Most dead, the ones who fled will make for ports. We’ll have their heads, all.” Jaime’s smirk widened and he leaned back comfortably. Lord Tywin steepled his hands and watched his son. “We need to discuss your future.”

Jaime’s smirk remained in place but he felt his stomach knot and his face stiffen. “I don’t see what there is to discuss.” 

“With Joffrey dead, there are now three sovereigns that have died during your tenure in the Kingsguard, one of which while you served as Lord Commander. The death of your nephew has made it clear that you are unfit to hold the position.”

Jaime felt his expression curdle on his face. “You cannot remove me from command because Joffrey choked to death.”

“He did not choke. I had the maester cut his throat open and they found no obstruction. It was poison that killed him, not pigeon pie.”

“Who?” _The Tyrells? The Martells? Some other fiend?_ He felt certain he had been away from court too long if he no longer could identify the many threats to the crown. 

“I do not know who, and there is little to be done about it for the moment. Tommen is King now and he will do as I say. You will be removed from the Kingsguard within a sennight.” Lord Tywin’s voice was calm and firm as he spoke easily about the death of his grandson. “I told you, I need you to be the man you were meant to be. Now is the time.”

“Removed!? You can’t do that, a knight of the Kingsguard serves for life.” 

“Cersei ended that when she released Ser Barristan on grounds of age. You shall be released, quietly, for your negligence. A suitable gift to the High Septon will convince him to release you from your vows. You sister was foolish, admittedly, to release Selmy but now that the gates are open-”

“-someone must close them again. I will not do this. No one ever asked me to be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard but it seems I am. I have a duty to the crown.”

“You have a duty to House Lannister. You are the heir to Casterly Rock and that is where you belong, and Tommen. He should accompany you as your ward and squire. I want him away from his mother. He can learn how to be a Lannister at the Rock . I intend for your sister to wed Loras Tyrell, or Oberyn Martell if need be. And it is past time for you to be wed as well. We need must put the disgusting rumors about you both to bed. The Tyrell’s are already insisting Margaery be wed to Tommen immediately, but if I were to offer you instead…”

“NO!” Jaime rocketed from his chair. He had heard enough. He had heard more than enough, more than he could stand. He had only been home a handful of days and he was already sick. He was sick of the city, sick of his sister, sick of his father, sick of the lords and the lies and the whole bloody business. “No. No. No. No. A hundred times, no. How many more must I say until you hear it? Loras Tyrell? He shared a bed with _Renly Baratheon_. And Oberyn Martell? He’s infamous for bedding whores, he’s got more bastards than Robert and he beds with boys. And if you think for one misbegotten moment that I would wed Joffrey’s widow…”

“Tyrell swears the girl is a maiden,” Lord Tywin continued calmly, ignoring Jaime’s outburst.

“She can die a maiden for all I care!” Jaime cringed at the thought. He seethed as his father appraised him.

“Not Margaery Tyrell, then. But you _are_ my son, and you _are_ the heir to Casterly Rock.” His voice was quiet and dangerously calm. A vein was pulsing in his neck. 

“I don’t want your Rock. I am a knight of the Kingsguard. I am _Lord Commander_ of the Kingsguard, and that is all I mean to be.” Jaime tried not to shout but he knew he was close to losing control in the face of his father’s silent rage. Mid-afternoon sunlight gleamed in the gold whiskers on his father’s chin. His clear green eyes were colder than the eyes of any of his children. “Father…” Jaime started

“If you are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and only that, than you are no longer my son.” Jaime nodded and turned to walk away, striding tensely to the door. “In that case our business here is finished as what I have to say concerning the fate of the Lady Brienne will no longer concern you.” 

Jaime’s thoughts skidded to a halt. “What about Brienne?” He said the words softly but he knew his father had spoken to rouse him, so Tywin would be listening. The solar was stifling and Jaime seethed that his father might try to use Brienne against him. He waited patiently, with his back still turned on Lord Tywin’s great desk. 

“ _Lady_ Brienne must have a husband. Her father has been lax in his duties to her. She should have been wed years ago. Seeing as she is a ward of the crown, it falls to me to see her made a wife. I had intended to ask your opinion on the matter, however-” Jaime’s fists clenched of their own volition and he spoke to cut off the Hand of the King. 

“No.”

He continued, unfazed. Lord Tywin knew his son’s rash impulses better than most men, and could read the lines of his back just as well as the expressions on his face. “Indeed, you will not be consulted. You are Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, are you not? Please, go do your duty. I have matters that need attending.” Jaime heard Tywin go back to scratching at his myriad important papers. 

“No,” he said again, finally turning to face his father. Tywin lifted his gaze and Jaime could see the phantom of a smile moving the stiff whiskers of his father’s face. Tywin Lannister never truly smiled, but this particular look came close. It was the joy of a foot crashing down on a particular nasty insect.

“No? No to what exactly? Why are you not gone, Lord Commander? Are you really so concerned for the girl’s fate?” Tywin raised one thick eyebrow as he appraised his son. Jaime felt his stuttering heart shudder at the thought of Brienne wed to Loras Tyrell or Oberyn Martell, or worse. He imagined her married to a man like Robert Baratheon and felt a cool sweat break on his forehead. “She broke her betrothal to you, a slight I am surprised you’ve forgotten.” 

“I haven’t.” Jaime took a step back to his father’s desk and Tywin raised his hand in a gesture for Jaime to sit, which he did reluctantly. “Her father broke the betrothal, not her. Don’t punish her for…Lord Selwyn.” _Galladon_. He let the unsaid word hang in the moist air of the solar. _I should have let them have you. I forgot to mention the rocks_. Cersei’s cruel admittance rolled through his mind like a gale. He wished she would have. “Haven’t we caused her enough pain?”

“What pain? It is her duty to marry, as it is yours. The boy’s death was regrettable, but boys will be boys. These things do happen. Lord Selwyn was foolish to break her betrothal to you. As it is, I expect it will be difficult to find her a suitable match. Perhaps it will be even more difficult than finding one for you.” 

_The gall of him_ , he thought, _the nerve_. Jaime bored holes into his father as he sat across from the man who would design his fate. The same man who would dishonor him with removal from the Kingsguard only to turn around and gift him with land and titles and a child bride. The type of man who would marry a girl off to the most convenient suitor he saw fit, ignoring her opinion and her father’s opinion on the matter. Tywin looked rather pleased with himself. “She won’t accept him.”

“Accept whom?”

“Anyone you set before her. She’s good with a blade, almost as good as me.” Jaime leaned back, relying on his knowledge of Brienne to see him through. “She won’t accept any man who cannot best her with a blade.” 

“And you think that you are the only one that can? Is that it? You’ll turn down Margaery Tyrell, and any other girl I’d offer you, but her you’d accept?”

Jaime thought for a moment. Yes, he would accept her, if only to ease her suffering. But he wore a white cloak, he was the Lord Commander. “Members of the Kingsguard take no wives.”

“Kingslayer’s Whore, they call her. I thought it was your brother that preferred the company of whores.” Tywin spoke with a calm that belied the seriousness of the accusation.

“She is a maid,” Jaime replied firmly.

“You are sure?” Jaime nodded and Tywin nodded back. “Then it is settled, she is marriageable.” Jaime clenched his teeth, furious that his father intended to marry her off against her will and wishing he had taken her maidenhead at Harrenhal. He would have if only the big, dumb girl had let him. “Why are you still here?” Jaime didn’t have an answer for him. Tywin stared at his son, waiting, but he did not speak. And did not speak. And did not speak. The silence went on until it was unbearable. 

“Father…” Jaime began again but Tywin cut him off.

“Go. Do your duty.” He turned his face away and Jaime stood, recognizing the end of the conversation.

He returned to his vigil with much to think about after his visit with his father. Thankfully Cersei was gone when he entered the Sept and after Ser Balon left him, Jaime stood alone for many hours. He had a lot to think about. 

He let his mind wander in the slanting light of the Sept, admiring the red rays casting shadows on the faces of the gods. Few people came to see the dead King, and Jaime found it odd that he felt near no grief. He felt guilt, yes, but without his broken sister to prod at him Jaime felt no rage at his son’s passing. Strange, he had never lacked for rage. Still, there were no tears. He turned to his son and admired his armor. “I wore armor like that the day I killed the King.” Joffrey did not answer. “Isn’t that amusing? You’re a dead King in Kingslayer’s armor.” The boy remained silent and Jaime entertained that his mouth might be stuck grinning beneath that helm. He knew it wasn’t, however. He knew that his son’s mouth would be stuck in that same silent howl, cut open beneath the chin. 

Unbidden Jaime’s mind went back to Brienne. _Have strength, Brienne,_ he begged silently. It was almost a prayer, but whom was he praying to? Did he pray to the Maid? _Surely not_ , he thought. Brienne was a maid, but she was nowhere near a gentle soul. _The Warrior?_ Perhaps he was Jaime’s god, if Jaime had believed in the Seven. Unfortunately for her, he did not believe. _The Father_ , he thought at last, or rather his father. Tywin was no god, though he could be as cruel as one, yet he had her fate in his hands and Jaime silently begged him to reconsider her.

The sound of footsteps in the dark brought Jaime back to the Sept and away from Brienne. He frowned when he saw Tyrion coming towards him. It was raining apparently, and his cloak left splatters and puddles as he walked. 

“It stinks in here,” he said when he finally reached Jaime. Tyrion eyed the corpse behind him in irritation. 

“He is rotting.” Jaime said nothing else, waiting for Tyrion to speak, knowing that his brother had not come to pay respect to the monster that had crawled from Cersei’s womb. 

“He was rotten before he died, brother. There was more of Robert in the boy than there was of you.” His little brother shook his head.

“That was Cersei’s doing.” Jaime shook his head. “She made them all Robert’s.”

“Yes, our sweet sister did, and to her peril. She thinks I killed him, you know.” Tyrion was matter-of-fact but Jaime could see how the slight affected Tyrion. It was obvious his little brother was offended at the notion. 

“I know you didn’t,” he replied carefully, kneeling.

“So do I,” Tyrion laughed. “I somehow doubt she’ll take my word for it.”

“She won’t have to. Father knows, he won’t allow her to have you arrested.” The thought of his sister arresting his brother, locking him up and having him tried for the death of Jaime’s monstrous son was a depressing thought. There would be evidence given, the kind that was bought in King’s Landing with promises and the clink of coins in taverns and dark corners.

“That is a relief.”

He stood. “Now, answer me true, how long has Cersei been fucking Lancel?”

Tyrion met his eyes and for a moment Jaime thought his brother would lie but Tyrion only sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know, but she has stopped. Or he did. I am not sure who terminated that unfortunate arrangement.”

“Was he the only one?” Jaime didn’t really want to know, but he needed to. He needed to know _how_ unfaithful his sweet sister, his other half, had been. He hadn’t suspected, couldn’t bear it, until he saw her preference for Ser Osmund. He’d been so wracked with his own guilt over Brienne that he could hardly see past it. Now his offenses at Harrenhal seemed piteously small, his lurid thoughts and desires the merest whisper of sin against Cersei’s betrayals.

“No.” The word fell across his shoulders like an eel, winding its way about his neck and constricting his throat.

“Who?”

Tyrion frowned but smoothed the grimace away when he continued airily ignoring Jaime’s question. “A little bird told me you let Ser Balon take over the vigil last night, but you were not in your room when I went to meet you. I waited for hours.”

“Who?” Jaime’s patience was running thin and he clutched his sword hilt stiffly.

“It seems the Lady Brienne went to the kitchens to fetch _two_ bowls of stew and retreated to her chamber for the rest of the evening. No one came out, and no one _else_ went in.”

“Who?” Jaime’s voice was a hard demand and Tyrion scrunched up his mangled face, his eyes pleading Jaime to stop. He only observed his brother with cool, questioning eyes. “Who else, brother?”

“She’s been fucking Lancel and Ser Osmund for sure, and possibly the other Kettleblacks. Seven Hells, she could be fucking Moon Boy for all I know!” Tyrion seemed angry at himself for saying the words, but Jaime was thankful. It was right that Tyrion told him. 

He felt a deep, roiling sickness in his stomach and turned from his brother. He eyed one of the gilt pitchers that lined the base of his son’s bier, it was filled with spicy incense that lit the hairs of his nose on fire, and contemplated being sick in it, but he was too furious to retch. To his brother’s credit, Tyrion did not flinch when Jaime turned back to him, wiping his leather covered fingers over the stubble of his chin and trying to stretch the tense muscles of his neck. 

“For what it is worth, I am sorry.” Tyrion waddled forward and Jaime sank to his knees out of habit. 

“Don’t, don’t pity me.” He did not think he could take his stunted, ugly little brother pitied him. Jaime swiped his tongue out, licking the salty sweat from his lip, and met Tyrion’s mismatched eye. “Why did you come here, I assume it wasn’t to discuss our sweet sister’s cunt?”

“I came to mourn my King and to speak with my brother. You spoke with father today?” Tyrion said the last like a question but he’d made it obvious since Jaime’s arrival that he knew everything that happened in the Red Keep. That meant that he knew very well that Jaime had spoken to Tywin. What it also meant was that he did not know what was said. 

“You know I did,” he answered. Tyrion nodded.

“What did he tell you? I know he is planning things, but he will not tell me. What he did to the Starks, it was…” 

“Wrong. Are you having a crisis of conscience, brother? Perhaps you feel sorry for your lady wife?”

“The Starks had just cause. The beheading of Ned Stark was badly done. The North will not forget this Red Wedding, as they are now calling it. I want to know what else he is planning.”

Jaime smiled; finally there was someone who it seemed knew less than he did. “I am surprised you do not already know.”

“Our dear father prefers to keep me in the dark, like a mushroom.” Tyrion laughed at the joke. _A mushroom, kept in the dark and fed shit._

“He told me little of his plans and less of his political maneuvering. He intends to have our sister married.” Tyrion nodded briskly.

“Yes, of that I am well aware, to Loras Tyrell. Can you imagine the pure misery that would be?” His little brother grinned impishly at Cersei’s potential misfortune.

Jaime could imagine the misery of that marriage, and he almost grinned along with his little brother before thoughts of Cersei soured his mouth. “And me as well.”

“Well, not to each other, certainly. That is something.”

“No.” He ignored the slight in his brother’s words. His relationship with Cersei was no longer a topic he could dance around, obviously. Tyrion knew. Brienne knew. Jaime was beginning to think even his father knew. With the letter Stannis sent after Robert’s death, the whole of King’s Landing most likely suspected. 

“You are a member of the Kingsguard. You are the Lord Commander. He knows members of the Kingsguard take no wives, hold no lands.”

“Yes, as I have reminded him. He intends, or intended, to have me removed for _negligence_. Three dead Kings is three too many.”

“He wants you to rule the Rock, take your rightful place as his heir and Warden of the West. He has made very clear it will not pass to me.”

“I don’t want his Rock,” Jaime groused and Tyrion rolled his eyes.

“And you would be terrible at ruling it. I don’t think he cares, Jaime. You were always his heir.”

Tyrion was right; he never did have a head for politics. Jaime would be shit as the Lord of the Rock. All he wanted was a sword in his hands, men at his back, and a foe at his front. War was easy; it was peace that Jaime Lannister found difficult. “He wants me to take Tommen with me, make him my squire.”

“He would have Tommen removed from the Capitol? A squire King? That is brilliant. The figure head remains at the Rock, learning to be a Lannister from his honorable Uncle Jaime, most loyal Warden of the West. It has the added benefit of keeping him away from Cersei and avoiding another Joffrey debacle. Did he share any more of his illustrious designs?”

Jaime’s scowl deepened. “Only that he intends to arrange a marriage for Brienne as well. It seems he has taken to match making.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened slightly. It was as close to shock as Jaime had ever seen on his brother’s face. “By what right?”

“She is a ward of the crown. This is war, brother. Brienne is in King’s Landing by the grace of our King. She returned me safely to the Capitol and thus the King, and our family, owes her a debt. This ‘gift’ would be considered done in service to Lord Selwyn.”

“She will not like that,” Tyrion laughed and Jaime scowled all the more.

“I expect not.” He bit the inside of his cheek and clenched and unclenched the fingers of his sword hand in an attempt to reign in his temper. The lack of rage he felt over the death of his son and King was a pleasure to the surging, coursing anger that boiled his blood at the thought Cersei fucking the whole of King’s Landing and Brienne being married off at his father’s convenience. 

Tyrion eyed his brother’s bitter expression and sobered.

“Well, big brother, what are you going to do about it?” He leaned casually against Joffrey’s bier and wrinkled his deformed nose.

“What is there to do?”

“You are a knight; save the maiden. Isn’t that what your lot does? You must get her out of the capitol, and you must go with her.” The idea was laughable. Jaime had a new King to guard and a place in the Kingsguard that still needed filling. He had the death of his old King to investigate. He absolutely could not go gallivanting across the realm with Brienne as though they were a couple of hedge knights. Besides, as the Stark’s were always glad to remind the realm, winter was coming. He didn’t trust himself not to let her keep him warm during the long, cold nights. Life was not like the songs.

“I can’t leave, and where could I send her?” 

“I don’t know.” Tyrion shook his head and mumbled to himself, “I don’t know, I don’t know.” He scratched his chin before finally returning his attention back to his older brother. “I will need a glass of wine. Everything comes easier with wine in the belly.”

Jaime smirked. “Be careful brother, if too much wine goes in you’ll mistake thoughts for words, and words for genius.”

“My words _are_ genius, brother.” Tyrion laughed and gave his brother a firm nod before turning away. He waddled off determinedly and when Jaime called farewell Tyrion only replied with a punctuated wave and a grin before he was gone from the Sept and Jaime was left alone, once again, with only his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always any feedback is welcomed and appreciated! See you soon.


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is back!

Dawn broke wet and gray over the Sept of Baelor on the seventh day of Jaime Lannister’s vigil. For four days Ser Balon and even Ser Boros had kept him irregular company in the guarding of their dead King. Ser Osmund was conspicuously absent unless he was escorting the Queen Regent. Cersei leaned on his arm and every day her waxen features became fairer and healthier; even her hair was glossier. Jaime frowned at the dim morning sun. He hadn’t slept since leaving Brienne’s chamber, and although he often let his mind wander to nothingness, he never sagged in the Sept. He merely stared vacantly forward as the mourners came in to pray. Cersei entered in the early morning, the pale fingers of dawn caressing the plains of her treasonous face. Once again she was on the arm of _valiant_ Ser Osmund. He knew she would not leave until the sun set and the stars began to light in the sky. She stood straighter, no longer leaning on her escort as heavily as she had in the first days of her mourning, once again a lioness and no longer a broken mother. He ignored her glares, which he noted she only delivered half-heartedly. It seemed even her ire was too precious for the likes of him. It cut. 

Brienne descended the Sept steps later in the afternoon. She was looking more murderous than usual, which Jaime attributed to the odd sort of dress he assumed his father must have forced her into. Her glares for him were like shards of ice, hot and cold all at once and their intensity was refreshing after Cersei’s offhand dismissal. Tyrion was by her side, a twisted sapling beside a towering weirwood. Her hair was pushed back to reveal her eyes, as it had been for the wedding, though she wore no fillet. When she reached the bier she gazed dispassionately at his son, swollen and rotting in his farce of armor. Her cheek was wan and pale, her lips freshly bitten, swelled red and raw. Jaime couldn’t help the twitch of his muscles or the silent question to Tyrion in his eyes. _What has happened?_

His little brother shot a look across sea of mourners and let it fall on their father and sister, in conversation with the Tyrells. 

In the span of time it took Jaime to pinpoint his family Tyrion and Brienne were joined by Lady Margaery. The little Queen was flanked by Lady Sansa and an older woman whom Jaime had seen with his sister of late. A Merryweather he thought, though her first name eluded him. “My Lady Brienne, you are looking well today,” the girl Queen smiled as she laid roses on the corpse that had been her husband. She held one back, demurely holding it beneath the button of her nose as she had done every day during her visits. It was a smart way to avoid the stench of decomposing flesh, smarter than his sister who seemed to prefer the musk of Ser Osmund to that of her once golden monster of a son. 

“Thank you, your Grace, for the thoughtful gift; it is very beautiful,” Brienne’s words were measured but not altogether cold. She bowed to Margaery, looking for all the world to be sincerely grateful. Jaime licked at the fuzz coating his teeth, hungrily scraping his tongue and contemplating the exchange. Margaery smiled and blushed prettily at Brienne’s bow. He imagined, absurdly, Margaery and Brienne at Renly’s camp. He pictured them stitching together and sharing a bed, whispering secrets to each other in the dark and Margaery fussing with Brienne’s short hair. It was an impossible scenario. He almost chuckled at the idea of Brienne whispering secrets to anyone in the dark, let alone the prettiest and most delicate flower Highgarden had to offer. That was excepting himself, of course, who _had_ whispered secrets to her in the dark. 

“I remembered how you detested dresses in Renly’s court. That style is very popular in Highgarden, it was no trouble for Flora to make some up for you and the color is quite becoming on you. Don’t you agree, Lady Sansa?” The young once and future Queen smiled graciously and Jaime’s goodsister nodded and smiled at Brienne. “I do hope you have occasion to wear the others,” she said smiling again and taking Brienne’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for returning my good-uncle to King’s Landing, my Lord Husband was glad of it before he died.” Brienne only blushed and nodded, catching Jaime’s eye for only a second as Margaery mentioned him. The girl did not loiter, not expecting Brienne to say anything else. She merely released Brienne carefully and reached out a slender hand to Sansa, who smiled just as easily at Brienne by way of good-bye, and led her retinue to meet her father and brother. 

She would be Tommen’s bride, and would rule behind his crown until he came of age. Jaime thought she would likely rule after then as well. Cersei was a statue as stiff as Casterly Rock, pretending to be interested in whatever Mace Tyrell was spouting as the ladies approached. Brienne, he noticed, did not follow the little Queen and her small party, but remained flushed and uneasy beside Tyrion. His brother had watched the interaction closely as well, and when Brienne turned back to them her face was almost as brittle as Cersei’s smile, losing almost all trace of the softness Margaery Tyrell had inspired. He inclined his head at her, knowing no smile would reach his eyes but hoping to gain himself the smallest of kind looks. Instead she bit her lip, knitting her brow, before she whirled and left the Sept and its hollow gods behind.

His brother sidled up closer to him, easily out of the way of the paltry few mourners who continued to approach the platform. “Brother, how goes your vigil?”

“My mouth tastes the way this thrice damned place smells.” Tyrion chuckled. “The wench is more dour than usual.” He inclined his head to the hulking form that was making her way out the large doors.

“She is behaving no worse than you did after your meeting with our father.” Tyrion smirked as the blood rushed from Jaime’s face. 

“When?” He kept his voice as hard as his steel but Tyrion’s infuriating grin persisted. 

“She only just returned when I reached her chambers this morning. I believe the gift from Margaery Tyrell was donned for the occasion.” His little brother ran a smallish finger along Jaime’s gauntlet and flicked his nail against the hilt of Jaime’s longsword. “She should have worn armor,” he said thoughtfully.

“And I thought it was the dress that had her looking so murderous.” He found himself grinning and when he looked down at Tyrion, he saw his brother had a matching impish smile on his lips. 

“Well, it’s certainly not helping.” Tyrion rose up on the tips of his toes and lifted his hand conspiratorially, Jaime bent down out of habit to hear his brother. “I have it on good authority that the skirt is actually loosely cut breeches, but the top of the dress is cut in Queen Margaery’s favorite style.” Tyrion inclined his head at Margaery, who was standing arm-in-arm with Tyrion’s child-bride. “An interesting gift to be sure; I think our Queen is rather taken with your wench. She might be, perhaps, an ally to your cause.”

Jaime examined the little Queen, her dress was the color of sea foam and it was cut as most of them are, with small sleeves, exposing her arms, and a neckline that dipped tantalizingly low in the shape of a ‘V.’ Margaery had milky skin, pale, with rosy cheeks. A true Tyrell. Brienne was pale too, but when she blushed, the colors were more vivid than any rose. She burned hotter than any flower of Highgarden, and she would be smattered with freckles. Each one was a reminder of the summer sun on her shoulders as they chased each other down her neck, across her collarbone, and down beneath the blue silk covering her meager breasts. 

Jaime nodded, focusing on his little brother and trying to clear his head. “That would explain the jerkin,” he grunted. “An ally in what?” 

Tyrion guffawed and Cersei, along with half the Sept, glanced their way. Jaime glared at them taciturnly but Tyrion made a show of mirth and remained by his brother’s side well into the day, not explain at all what he had meant but keeping Jaime standing at any rate, for which he was grateful to his brother. At supper, as the sun finally began to sink beneath the horizon, his watch finally ended. Jaime happily left the stale Sept and walked briskly into the dusky night. The summer winds were cool and crisp, the sea breeze carrying salt on the air, banishing the putrid scent of King’s Landing and the smell of incense and rotting flesh that had lived in Jaime’s nose for days. He immediately headed to his chambers, stopping a washer woman on his way and demanding she send up a tub of steaming water to his chambers immediately. 

When he reached the room, he stripped and bathed, letting the steam and the water roll over him. He let his eyes slip shut, breathing deeply and reveling in the warm water rolling over him. When he came to, the water was cold and his skin was wrinkled like one of Roose Bolton’s dried figs. He toweled himself off, crawling languidly from the copper tub and into bed, falling asleep even before his head hit the pillow. 

He was back in the Sept of Baelor, standing vigil over his son. Jaime was alone, as he had been at first, but it was late into the night. He turned, feeling eyes on him, and a figure materialized from the shadows. At first Jaime thought he recognized the shape of the figure. “Brienne?” he called. 

But the figure shook its head slowly. She was dressed all in grey with a veil covering her face like a silent sister. He saw as she grew closer that she was too small, too willowy to be Brienne. The veil hid her face, but the glowing green pools of her eyes were still visible in the dark. “Sister,” he tried again. “What would you have of me?” His words echoed strangely in the empty stone chamber. 

“I am not your sister, Jaime, nor am I your lover. Have you forgotten me?” His throat constricted as the woman lifted pale, boney fingers to remove the veil from her face. He did know her, though it had been so long…“I wonder if you’ll forget your lord father as you have forgotten me,” her voice was soft and sad when she spoke. 

“Who are you?” He asked her, even though he knew. He had to hear her say it, wanted her to say it. 

“The question is not who am I, but who are you?”

Jaime shook his head, “This is a dream.”

“Is it?” She stepped closer and brushed a long finger against his cheek. “My son, we all dream of things we cannot have. Tywin wanted children. He wanted sons who would be great knights and a daughter who would be queen. They would be brave and beautiful and no one would ever laugh at them.” 

“Mother,” he voice broke as he tried to tell her that he _was_ a knight, and that Cersei _was_ a Queen, but the words stuck in his throat. 

“And your sister, she wanted a son to be a golden King, more great and good and powerful than Aegon the Conqueror. But my beautiful boy, who do you dream of?” Jaime looked down to his feet like a scolded child, for his first thought was of Cersei, his beautiful twin. But no, that wasn’t true; now his dreams were of Brienne. 

“Brienne,” he croaked, looking back up to the woman who had borne him. She was smiling, though there were tears in her eyes. She turned away from him, her skirt whispering against the stone floor as she departed. _Please, don’t leave, come back. Don’t leave me here!_ He wanted to cry out to her but she had left, had left them all, a long time ago.

He awoke, sweating and still damp from his bath. He’d slept soundly through supper, not eating or drinking any of the food that had been left at his door. Someone had come in and removed the basin he’d bathed in and replaced it with a bowl and towel for his face. He hastily swiped his eyes and sat up, his mother’s voice still reverberating in the darkening corners of his mind, her skirts whispering across the floor, singing lullabies he had long forgotten. He dressed quickly in the pale moonlight, foregoing his formal armor in favor of a quilted red and brown colored jacket and dark pants. He struggled with the boots slightly, hands shaking, but managed them eventually. He stopped on his way out, grabbing at the meat and bread on the iron plate at his door and shoving the food into his mouth, quaffing both the water and wine in deep droughts. 

Brienne’s bedchamber was devoid of life when he reached it. He knocked at first, not sure whether he hoped to find her abed or not. Then he pushed the door open hesitantly, entering after a few beats with no response. Her meal had also been left at the door, though, unlike his, it went untouched. He left the White Sword Tower, intending to search out Tyrion and enlist his help in locating the big woman, but he only made it as far as the yard at the tower’s base. As the rest of the keep attended the revels marking the end of King Joffrey’s seven day vigil, Brienne furiously hacked at a practice dummy beneath a yellow waxing moon. He entered, surprised to find her in silk rather than armor. She appeared to have also decided to do without her gloves, though he was gratified to see that her loosely flowing pants were tucked into worn, sensible boots. He saw now, under closer inspection, how the fabric had been cut to drape in the illusion of a skirt. The garment was fitting, he thought, not a dress and certainly not to be considered breeches.   
She raised her arm, grunting like a sow, and swung hard at the plump, stuffed head of the mock opponent. The straw that served as its blood and bones burst out in a satisfying ‘womph.’ She angrily swung again, still heaving and gave a cry as her pitted and dull blade struck its target again and again. She hacked viciously, decapitating the figure and still she slashed. Jaime took a step forward and then another, drawn to her like a moth to a flickering flame in the dark. His boots crunched on a dry twig and suddenly she was spinning. Before he could so much as take a step back she was looking him in the eyes, her tourney blade tip at his neck. “Jaime,” she breathed raggedly. 

“My lady,” he replied. “This feels familiar. I would ask you to dance but I seem to have lost my sword.” He held his hands out to show that he was unarmed. Brienne stared at him, unblinking. He watched as a drip of sweat trickled down her hair line and disappeared into the collar of her leather jerkin. “Are you warm, my lady?” The night was cool but the gods only knew how long she had been working over that straw man. 

“No, Ser, I am well,” she responded curtly, not allowing her sword point to drop.

Jaime reached up and laid his hand against the point, pushing it down and stepping into her space. “Are you angry with me, my lady? Tyrion said you spoke with our father. ” He skirted around her and lifted the head of the dummy from the ground. “I take it that it did not go well.” 

“Do not pretend you do not know,” she sneered. He felt truly sorry as he watched her face crumple under his scrutiny. “I didn’t know he would, I didn’t think he could. And you…” Her voice trailed off into the dark and Jaime picked up the thread. 

“My father rarely does what is expected of him; I think he delights in doing what other men think he can’t.” Jaime held his hand out and cupped her cheek. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I tried to convince him to let you alone.” 

Brienne turned her head away, cheeks flaming at his touch, but was too late. He had already felt the wetness on his fingers that she had tried to hide. “Yes, of course you would,” she nodded quickly. “I didn’t think you would want this.” Her voice stuttered to a halt and Jaime stepped closer to her, letting his thumb run along her square jaw and run along her neck. 

“I don’t want this; it is the last thing in the realm that I want, but you had to know it was inevitable.” Brienne shuddered under his ministrations and looked at him with something akin to rage in her eyes. The fire that burned there startled him and Jaime was mesmerized by the sight.

“Inevitable? You think this inevitable? I am no lady, barely a woman, from a worthless little island, ugly and poor. You, you are beautiful, from the wealthiest family in the Westeros. You are to be the Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West. Jaime, you are Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sworn to take no wife, father no heirs, and hold no lands. This was not inevitable! This was the last thing that I thought could have happened.” She was trembling and sweating beneath his fingers, and he recognized, perhaps for the first time, panic in her usually calm eyes.

“Brienne, what did my father _say_ to you?” She gritted her teeth and viciously wretched herself from his grip. 

“You already admitted you knew, do not mock me.” Jaime moved forward slowly, as if approaching a wounded beast, with his hands outstretched and placating.

“He told me, the morning after I left you, that he intended to have you married. That is all I know. What did he say to you? What did he say _exactly_ , Brienne?”

Her shoulders sagged and she knit her brow and dropped her tourney sword in the dust. “He never said you, he only said…I didn’t think he could arrange a marriage with anyone else.”

“I assure you, he does not intend to marry us. I do not know who he has intended for you, but I promise I will do everything in my power to stop it, or at least delay it.” He reached out and touched her shoulder gently. When she looked up she was huffing and her eyes were no longer panicked. She snarled. 

“If it were you, I thought perhaps it might not be so horrible. You and I are known to each other, we- I had hoped…but no. He cannot marry me to whomever he wishes. He is not my father and he has no right, I will not be married here.” His felt his mouth soften and his heart speed up at her admission, that she had assumed, nay, she had _hoped_ he was her betrothed. 

“He is the Hand of the King. I assure you, he can and he will. He considers your father weak for letting you have any say at all in whom you might marry. I promise you, you will not receive an opinion, my Lady.” Brienne growled and the sound was so wild and guttural Jaime nearly laughed at the strangeness of it coming from her. 

“No, there must be something I can do. I made a vow to Lady Catelyn. Sansa might be lost to me, but the Lady Arya is still missing. I do not have time to be married, I cannot stay here.” It seemed as though everyone else knew Brienne had to be removed from King’s Landing, but Jaime could not bring his mind to so much as try to think of a way for her to leave. He had to admit to himself that he did not _want_ her to leave. He thought of his dream, of his mother’s tears, of her asking him what he dreamt of. _Brienne_ , he had told her. _We all dream of things we cannot have._

“The offer still stands: I would be glad to have you in the Kingsguard,” he tried desperately, knowing that would never work. She would be too close, too close to him and too close to his sweet sister.

“No, I cannot stay here. I must convince your father to allow me to leave.” She shrugged his hand off her shoulder and sighed. 

“Why?!” He near shouted at her. “The girl is like to be dead and her sister is safe with Tyrion. Lady Stark is dead and your vow along with her.” He grabbed at her but Brienne evaded him easily. “Where would you go? The North, Dorne, the Free Cities? If you think you’re going to stumble across her in an Inn somewhere you are wrong!” He swiped again, making a grab for her arm but she dodged and grabbed at the tourney sword at her feet. Jaime growled and pulled out the dagger he kept in his boot. It was live steel but he was furious at the thought of losing her. It mattered little that he had already resolved for her to go, he didn’t think he could let her leave him. 

“Jaime!” She cried, eyeing his blade and falling into a defensive stance. 

“Ready to leave so soon, wench? Tell me, where would you go? With what money do you intend to go gallivanting across the countryside? Hmm? Where will you get armor or a sword?” He pushed aside her tourney sword, raising his dagger as he did so, and grabbed her jerkin, tugging her to him. 

“I will sleep in hedges, hunt my meals, and drink from streams. It is not so hard. ” He was close enough to lick the sweat from her temple but he kept his tongue in his mouth and only gave a harsh laugh. “Jaime, let me go.” 

“Or what?” He tugged her closer to him, pressing himself against her. “Are you going to behead me with that shit steel?” He dragged the dagger in his right hand down the length of her neck and let the tip rest against the leather laces of her jerkin. “If you were a penniless hedge knight, without armor or steel, and this was the stable of some dingy, flea-infested Inn, what would you do?” He kicked her legs, catching her off-guard and forcing Brienne to widen her stance. She stomped hard on his foot and Jaime winced, releasing her arms and nodding stiffly in approval. Brienne was furious, red-faced and sweating, her eyes sparkling with rage. She hastily tore at her jerkin, the leather falling away at her collar, revealing a small amount of soaked through blue silk, the color of a midsummer sky, and a much larger amount of pale, freckled, sweat-covered skin. Jaime let his gaze wander over the newly exposed, flushed skin of her heaving chest. He was so entranced with the way the splotches of freckles tumbled down her shoulders and across her collarbones and down into the valley between her small mounds, that he almost missed it as she lifted her tourney sword and drove the hilt at his temple. Jaime’s hand shot out and caught her wrist. He held it tightly and twisted, causing her to drop the sword. “Ah, ah, ah, that was not very friendly, wench.”

“Why do you want to keep me here?” Her voice was little more than a furious whisper but Jaime was close enough to breathe in the words as she spoke them. 

“I…” Jaime frowned, unsure of his answer. 

“Thank the gods,” Tyrion shouted, waddling fast over the pitted ground of the yard. His pace had him near stumbling several times as he barreled towards them. Brienne leaned away from Jaime, though his hold on her wrist kept her close. 

 

“Brother,” Jaime said, trying to keep his voice calm and creating more space between himself and Brienne. Tyrion arrived at their side, giving Brienne’s state of undress and Jaime’s long dagger only a cursory glance as he bent over to suck air in. “What would you have of me?”

“It’s Lady Sansa. She’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my little story! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I will see you next time. As always I appreciate any and all feedback!


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The planning of plans!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say I am so, so sorry this took so long?? Because I am. The thing is, I was working on a few too many things at once, plus starting a new job-tomorrow is, literally, my first day off is 9 days. I look so forward to it. :D 
> 
> That being said, this chapter is more than twice as long as most of the chapters in this fic so I hope that makes up for the wait a little bit!!! (forgive me, I am not worthy of your affection T-T )
> 
> A big thanks goes out to _snowfright_ for being a fabulous beta a looking this over for me. However, all mistakes are solely my own.

Chapter 18

Tyrion sat with his head in his hands, curiously Sansa’s lady maid stood behind him looking flushed and furious. She had a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder and his small, stunted fingers stroked her long, slender ones intermittently. Jaime could read their relationship right away. He could easily recognize the gentle touch of a lover anywhere. He had once held Cersei like that, had gripped her shoulder in consolation of her first lost child; not Joffrey but the dark haired one with light blue eyes, the baby, the one that had been hers and Roberts. Jaime had held her up then, with his hand on her shoulder as she wept over her dead infant. 

He chanced a look at his concerned companion, her pale face tight with worry, but if she noticed the unusual intimacy between Sansa’s husband and lady maid she did not show it. 

“It was that man, that Littlefinger,” the woman behind Tyrion spoke with an accent Jaime could place as Lyseni. It was not an accent commonly heard in Westeros, but Cersei had once had a lady's maid who was a Lyseni noble. She had sounded much like Shae, although he had to admit that girl had lacked the passion he saw in Tyrion’s new lover. He was sure that was what this woman was, his brother’s lover. Not a whore, or at least not anymore, and certainly not a lady's maid. She was very clearly Tyrion’s mistress, and Jaime wasn’t sure if he was happy his brother hadn’t been sharing the very young Sansa Stark’s bed or disappointed that he had been sharing another’s and keeping it from Jaime. Adultery had never bothered the Kingslayer, he had made a cuckold of Robert time and again, but _Jaime_ was finding himself rather put off by the idea. Shae did seem to care for Tyrion though, which was more than his brother received from most, and her defense of Sansa was nothing short of motherly. 

“Shae, we don’t know that for certain.” Tyrion sat up and took a drink of wine from a glass that was smaller than usual, before letting his head slump back down onto his arms. “She was married to a grotesque, perhaps she’s just run off. Please, sit. I can’t have you two standing over me like the twin titans of Braavos.” He waved from his bent position at Jaime and Brienne, not even looking at them. Brienne hesitantly sank into one of the chairs at the large desk, Jaime following suit beside her. 

“She is not safe if he has her, which he does. He has that little girl, and do you know what he is going to do to her? Because I do, I have seen how he looks at her.” The woman behind his brother snatched her hand from his grasp, causing Tyrion’s head to shoot up. 

“Yes, I have an idea what he would like to do to her, and I am in no mood to have my wife deflowered by the likes of Petyr Baelish. However, we have no proof he was involved.” Shae harrumphed and Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Yes, it is possible, even likely, that Littlefinger has conspired to have Sansa removed to Vale, with or without her consent, but we cannot _prove_ it.”

“Would he really do that, could he?” Brienne’s voice was small when she interrupted their conversation, like the naïve girl that Jaime was constantly reminded that she was, regardless of her age. He lamented that Brienne had not learnt to trust her own voice, she so rarely roared. She could have been a lion, but Lord Selwyn and that damned island had turned her into a mouse. And though she knew what men like Baelish did to girls like Sansa, she didn’t _want_ to know, couldn’t stomach it. 

“We can’t say for sure where she is,” Jaime tried to console her. “It is possible. Bu Littlefinger left for the Vale weeks ago, before Joff’s wedding, I doubt he’d come all the way back for the Stark girl. I doubt he’s even settled in the Eyrie yet, which means if he has orchestrated her removal, than he had someone doing his dirty work. He would need someone Sansa trusted and Petyr Baelish is not known for his trustworthy companions.”

“I know what I saw,” Shae insisted, pushing her hair back angrily and Jaime narrowed his eyes at the woman. She was making Brienne nervous and if Brienne was nervous, he was nervous. It was something he couldn’t seem to help, an indelible line that was drawn from her to him, always tugging, tugging at his stomach and at his heart. 

He rounded on Shae, could feel the cruelty leaching out of his eyes and the tone of his voice as he heaped his frustration into his words. “What do you care for the girl? Are you really missing emptying her chamber pot? Do you long for hair to braid? Try mine, I fear Brienne would be ill-suited to having a maid. Perhaps my sister- ”

“I would die for that girl!” The ferocity of her shout jarred Jaime and he leaned back from the table. 

“Is that why you keep my brother distracted, for Sansa?” He growled at her. Brienne gasped at his side but the damage was done and he could not take back what he’d said.

“Jaime!” Tyrion pushed the upper half of his body from the table and glared at him. It was enough to silence his mouth but not his mind. Jaime felt another tell-tale tug in his gut, the same he equated with Brienne being uneasy, and turned to see her red-faced and looking between the three of them as if they’d all gone mad. Shae looked almost apologetic, with her hand on Tyrion again and his little fingers tangling with hers. Suddenly Jaime was furiously jealous of Tyrion and his mistress, or whore, whatever she was. Instead of apologizing for his words he merely gritted his teeth and kept his mouth closed when Tyrion continued. “Shae, you had better hope Baelish doesn’t have her, because he would be happy to kill you if it meant he could keep her. She is the key to the North, and he will not give her up easily.” Tyrion’s voice was calm again, his words muffled by the wood and books that seemed to be closing in on them in the small room. He sat up, straightening his back and letting his legs kick back and forth as he situated himself again in his chair. His face meant business, Jaime had seen the look before, Tyrion had a fierce determination that even Cersei had marveled at.

“Baelish is going to use Sansa to take the crown?” He asked, but Jaime knew the answer. Sansa was valuable, that was why his father had married her to Tyrion. That was why his sister had refused to let her leave King’s Landing after her father was executed.

Tyrion nodded, taking another gulp of arbor red. “I have to admit, it would be an ingenious plan. Take the key to the North, invalidate her wedding based on lack of consummation, and wed her to a malleable young upstart or the sick Arryn boy. Perhaps he even plans to eventually wed her himself, once he makes her a widow of course. He would then be able to seize the North and use the coming winter and the tattered remains of Robb Stark’s army, not to mention the completely undiminished forces of the Vale, to make a reasonable assault on the crown. He’ll burn the realm and rule the cinders with a Queen of Winter at his side. The problem is he is to marry Lysa Arryn, Sansa’s aunt. I’ve met the woman, very unpleasant, tried to kill me. She will be loath to join the war and she will be unhappy letting a younger, prettier woman gain power under her roof.”

“Will her Aunt not be happy to have her, to protect her?” Brienne’s face was clouded, her brow creased and her mouth pulled to one side.

“Have you met the Lady Lysa, Brienne? No, of course not, if you had you would know better than to ask that. She is a bitter woman who has nursed her son from the birthing bed into the sick bed. She will not be happy to have Lady Sansa as a constant reminder of Baelish’s preference for her sister, which was painfully obvious to all but her and Ned Stark.” Tyrion smiled gently at Brienne’s horrified expression and met Jaime’s eyes with a small smile. She could never even imagine such a betrayal, which he should be thankful for. What Brienne lacked in lion’s pride she made up for in an innocence she would have lost at the Rock. Jaime reached out and placed his hand over hers, just letting it sit there, grounding her. She didn’t turn to him, choosing to focus on Tyrion, but she flipped her hand beneath his. He let his fingers hover over hers before settling, and when she stilled he relaxed his muscles, their palms kissing and their fingers overlapped. 

“Then what do we do?” Tyrion said, he steepled his fingers and touched the tips to his mouth as he thought. 

“We have to bring her back,” Shae demanded outright.

“She’s no safer here than with Baelish,” Jaime interjected, but it earned him only a glare from the Lyseni handmaiden.

“I would protect her with my life, and at least here she is with friends and has the Lannister name. She knows no one in the Vale, can trust no one, she is a pawn.” Shae clenched her fists angrily and he noticed Brienne was nodding in agreement, though he didn’t think the giantess beside him realized she was doing it.

“No, Jaime is right.” Tyrion agreed, shaking his head and looking miserable. “Look how well the lady fared under my protection, I can’t protect her. No, even if we locate Sansa, we can’t bring her here. Cersei will have her head on a pike for Joffrey’s death as soon as she sets foot in King’s Landing.”

“Then I will kill her,” Shae said with conviction, but Brienne was already speaking up.

“She has a brother on the Wall,” she tried helpfully, but Jaime couldn’t help the scoff that slipped past his lips.

“Ah, yes, Jon Snow the Bastard. If he’s not dead already, killed by winter or wildlings, I’m sure he would love to look after her, protect her from the murderers and rapists he calls brothers. Brienne, the Wall is no place for maidens.” Jaime’s words were finite but he could feel the muscles in Brienne’s hands flex. He knew instinctively that she was chaffing at his protective gesture, hating that he had lumped her in with Sansa. He did not care. She was a maid, regardless of how well she wielded a sword or how bloody tall she was, and she was young. He would be damned to all the seven hells if he let her go traipsing about in the wild North with winter about to fall on them all. 

“It does not change the fact that she has nowhere else to go. At least her brother will protect her.” Brienne gritted her teeth and turned to look Jaime in the face, “If it were Cersei-” she started, but Jaime slammed his other hand flat on the table.

“It’s not Cersei, and it’s not you. It is Sansa who is missing, and orphaned, and she has no business on the Wall. She has other family besides Ned Stark’s bastard. Her Uncle, Edmure Tully, is a prisoner of Walder Frey.”

“You want me to turn her over to the man who murdred her mother and brother, the man who betrayed them all!?” Brienne was seething beside him but he was both glad and surprised she had not yet snatch back her hand. 

“I am not suggesting we give Lady Sansa to Walder Frey, but perhaps he could be persuaded to release Edmure. We could leave Sansa in Edmure’s care as recompense for his great loses.”

“Jaime, what are the chances we could persuade Walder Frey to release Edmure?” Tyrion had slid forward in his chair and was eyeing Jaime with a spark in his dark, mismatched eyes. 

“The chances are good. Lord Walder was acting with sanction from father, he would give up Edmure to be a prisoner of the Rock if we so much as asked nicely,” Jaime assured his brother. “We would then have to release Edmure, we could escort them perhaps as far as White Harbor. The Manderlys are bannermen of House Stark, they would protect Sansa.”

“That is good, that is very good. Brienne,” he swung his gaze to Jaime’s left. “You know Margaery Tyrell rather well, do you not?”

“Not well. She was at Renly’s camp when I was there, she was…kind to me.” Brienne’s words were tentative, but genuine. Jaime was struck again at how odd the idea of their friendship was. In his experience highborn women were cruel, petty, oft jealous, and very infrequently kind, especially to women the likes of Brienne. 

“Yes, so kind as to have a dress made for you upon your arrival in the city, several dresses in fact, and of quite expensive silks. Have you spoken with her, Lady Brienne?” She gave a stuttering nod and Jaime’s eyes widened slightly. Why had she not mentioned that? She had told him nothing of speaking with Lady Margaery. “Indeed, I thought I heard you had a lunch or two with her and the Lady Olenna. A very…formidable woman, the Queen of Thorns, wouldn’t you say?”

Brienne did not reply but nodded emphatically. Jaime had not had the pleasure of speaking too often with Lady Olenna, and had not thought to ask what Brienne had been getting up to while he had been languishing in the Sept of Baelor with his corpse of a son. 

“She is very firm,” Brienne’s stated plainly, Tyrion guffawed at her description. What little Jaime recalled of the Lady Olenna was praise of her will from his father, which Jaime considered not praise at all. Tywin considered _himself_ to be willful, and rightfully so, an understatement of the highest order. 

“Yes, yes she is. Now, Brienne, I would not ask you if it were not necessary, but you must convince Margaery Tyrell to accept you into her service, and she must insist you leave King’s Landing to search out my wife. Margaery and Sansa were friends, I believe, or as close to friends as you can have in this cesspit of a city. None will think it odd that she would champion you to locate her friend and kin by marriage. You did speak to her of Jaime, did you not?”

Brienne’s eyes darted to him, her cheeks reddening under his smirking scrutiny. “Yes,” she whispered, before the rest of her words tumbled from her thick lips in a rush. “We talked of many things.”

Tyrion smiled, “then she will help us. Jaime, I am sorry, but you must be prevailed upon to speak with our sweet sister. She must allow Margaery and Tommen to wed. Cersei has been reluctant, citing her grief, but Mace Tyrell has been clamoring to wed Margaery and Tommen. He wants a Queen in Margaery, make sure he gets it. Tommen will sign the decree for you to find Sansa if you place it before him, but Margaery needs to be the Queen if she is to persuade our father to allow you to steal Brienne away from him.”

“What makes you think our sweet sister will listen to me?” It was bitter, acknowledging the deterioration of the relationship that had defined him, made him who he was. “Cersei has made it clear how very little she thinks of my opinion, as of late, brother.” Jaime’s heart seized up in his chest and the realization of how very little he too though of _her_ opinions. It didn’t stop the dull ache in his heart though, when he thought of her. And it certainly didn’t quell the rage that inevitably followed when he pictured the way she had fawned of Ser Osmund, and raised the lackluster hedgeknight to the Kingsguard in Jaime’s absence. 

Tyrion sighed, “She is in need of council and our Uncle always sides with our father. She will come to you. She has always had you to trust and she will listen when you give advice. Tell her to marry Tommen to Margaery, it can be annulled. And, truthfully, she hasn’t got much choice left in the matter. Father _will_ , we need Highgarden whether Cersei agrees or not. But it will take longer if she is unwilling and we do not have the time to waste.” Jaime could not argue his brother’s logic and was surprised at how sure he felt. _Yes_ , he thought, _this could work_. “You will have to speak with her soon, the sooner the better.”

“Does she know of Sansa’s disappearance?” He asked.

“If she did not before I found you, I am sure she does now,” Tyrion said, distracted. “She will come to you,” he finished. 

“It’ll be the first time,” Jaime muttered under his breath, and it would be. It would be the first time she'd ever come to him, she’d never had to before, he was always there when she needed him. No more, now she would come to him and he would be there to greet her with a smile. He was scowling at the thought but when Brienne squeezed his hand, offering support he hadn’t known he needed, he tried to make his expression gentler.

“I’m going with you,” Shae interrupted but Jaime ignored her and simply met Brienne’s astonishing gaze. Her sapphire eyes were wide and worried and only for him, even as Shae and Tyrion argued across from them.

“Will this work?” She asked. “Do you think we can find her?” He wanted to tell her yes but he didn’t know. He had nothing to give her, no promises he could make to her. “Will they let me leave, do you think? Will they let _you_?” Still she asked, looking for reassurance. She was not frightened, but she was desperate to fulfill her vow to Lady Catelyn.

“I thought you were already determined to go and save our honor? Having second thoughts?” He raised his eye and grinned at her wolfishly, trying to ease her mind. She rolled her eyes and tried to tug her hand away from his, finally, but he did not release it. He remembered the feel of her skin beneath his fingers at Harrenhal, the salty taste of her throat, and the way her legs had spread to steady herself against his onslaught. He tried to let her see it in his eyes when she looked at him, knowing only one reassurance he could give her. He could not promise they would save Sansa, he wasn’t even sure they would find her, and he couldn’t even begin to guess the whereabouts of Arya Stark. What he could promise was that he wanted her, even when he could not have her, and despite how much he absolutely shouldn’t, and that he would not leave her to face this on her own.

“That was different, I thought to go alone,” she replied stubbornly. Jaime reached out and swiped at her cheek. She stiffened but didn’t move away. 

“Never alone,” he said honestly, before grinning. “You can’t expect me to sit in King’s Landing while you get all the glory,” Jaime winked. “Besides, I am the Kingslayer. How am I to rescue my honor if I keep breaking my vows? I made a promise too, wench.” And even though she narrowed her big, guileless eyes at him, he saw a small smile pull at the edges of her mouth. 

“Brienne,” she corrected him.

“Yes, yes, we all know,” Tyrion spoke for him. Jaime and Brienne turned as one to find Shae and Tyrion smiling at them indulgently. Jaime fought the urge to sneer or tug his hand from Brienne’s in spiteful retaliation, just managing to hold himself back, but he could not meet his brother’s eyes. “Shae has persuaded me to join you in your ventures, seeing as the last time you rode from the city I was nearly carved in half at the behest of our nephew, or our sister…I am not sure who gave the order, but without you they nearly killed me. And it seems if I go,” he turned his head to the woman behind him, “Shae goes as well.” The handmaid was still smiling at Brienne coyly, but her fingers were buried territorially deep in the velvet of Tyrion’s doublet.

“And how do you intend that?” 

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “I will have you know I am a master at hiding whores, brother, and Shae must come to look after Brienne of course.” Shae laughed, a noise like tinkling crystal bubbling up from her throat as she slapped Tyrion on the back of the head. It was a beautiful sound, it was no wonder Tyrion fell in love with her.

“I am a maid, not a whore,” Shae said stuffily, crossing her arms and raising and eyebrow at her lover.

“Yes, a maid you are, and Brienne is a _maiden_. She cannot travel without a companion in our untrustworthy company, brother. Surely you understand, my lady?” Tyrion smiled smugly and Shae laughed again behind him, neither noticing Brienne’s reaction to their very obvious affections and the discovery of Shae’s former occupation. Her fingers twitched and Jaime rubbed soothing circles into her palm, trying to calm her. He couldn’t imagine what sort of things were running through her naïve mind. He guessed her honor, at the very least, was offended by Tyrion and Shae’s obvious relationship. He wagered the only reason she had not said anything was her affection for Tyrion and a romantic streak that ran a league wide.

“Then we have our work cut out for us,” Jaime finished. He grabbed up Brienne’s hand, already curled beneath his, and tugged her to her feet. “My Lady, perhaps we should leave my brother to his planning. Tyrion, have a good night. Shae,” he said with a nod of his head. The woman curtsied back with an ease born from years of servitude. 

“Do not stay up too late, big brother,” Tyrion called as they made their way from his little room.

“Do not drink too much, little brother,” he called back.

“I do not understand you two sometimes,” Brienne said when they neared the white tower, the moon sparkling in her eyes and making even her mottled, freckled skin glow. 

“And you are not likely to, my Lady. My father has said much the same for many years,” Jaime grinned, taking her hand and escorting her properly when he saw a smallish maid hurrying on some errand. Her arm was strong, wrapped around his, and he marveled sidelong at the muscle beneath her skin. Her jerkin was still open at the collar, being that they were interrupted and caught off-guard, hands still dirty from the hilt of her blade. 

“Tyrion and Shae are…” Brienne trailed off and Jaime uncharacteristically held his tongue, letting her collect her thoughts. After a beat, she finished, “Tyrion is bedding Sansa’s lady maid.” 

It was not a question. “He is,” Jaime replied, trying to keep his tone even. Brienne said nothing for a few steps before stopping and making Jaime stop with her. 

“What of Sansa, of their vows?” Her wide face was open and he could see the confusion and hurt as plain as he could count the freckles that trailed over the bridge of her nose. He wanted to kiss her cheek, assure her that there was no harm in Tyrion’s indiscretion. He wanted to tell her many things: that he was secretly glad for Sansa’s unexpected departure from the clutches of his foul city. That the girl was likely better off as far from Cersei and the Lannisters as she could get, Brienne too. That he was glad of an excuse to delay Brienne’s wedding, though for what good he wasn’t sure. That he would leave Brienne’s maidenhead for her husband, even though the man would likely not deserve the courtesy, because Jaime did not intend to be forced from the Kingsguard, regardless of his father’s wishes. 

Instead he kept his wits about him and focused on the task at hand. “Sansa is child, you must see that. Her wedding to Tyrion is unconsummated,” he replied gently.

“So he beds another woman?” Brienne crossed her thick arms over her wide chest, curling in on herself, and he could sense the rising irritation in her voice. He wanted to shake her shoulders and force her to see that there were things other than vows to be concerned about. He wasn’t sure how to describe Shae and Tyrion, how to show Brienne that a child was not what Tyrion wanted in a bedfellow. She knew so little of what went on between a husband and wife, and what she did know was pieced together from lies told by her septa and Jaime’s own fervent and hurried advances.

“He loves her,” he tried, lying. He had no idea whether his brother loved Sansa’s foreign handmaided for sure, but he suspected that was the case. She rather reminded Jaime of his brother’s first wide, Tysha and Tryion, like Brienne, was soft-hearted. He saw the reconciliation in her eyes, the way she accepted his words. Tyrion loved Shae and so he broke his vow to Sansa. It seemed so simply, easy for her to accept. Perhaps Brienne did not like it, but she would not stand in the way. Jaime wondered, briefly, what she would do if he told her that he loved her, might be _in love_ with her, as much as he was growing to hate the word and its association with his sweet sister. Would she sigh and swoon and spread her legs? Would she curse and cry and call him a coward, an oathbreaker? 

He leaned up, crossing the inches that held her head above his, and gave Brienne a chaste kiss on the cheek in the affectionate way he thought a brother might kiss a sister. So long as that brother weren’t him. Her skin was flushed, warm on his lips. He forced himself to release her arm and to pull back the hand that had wandered on its own to the slight indent of her muscled hip. Jaime extracted a promise to spar the next evening before she ducked away behind the heavy door and disappeared.

He continued further on to his apartments and his waiting bed and bath, his thoughts frantic and tinged with lust as he went. He had been too long without a woman, and he was likely to go much, much longer. It was a prospect he dreaded, but saw no remedy for. He was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and he intended to remain so. His sister, his lover, had betrayed him. The only other person he wanted was too honorable by half and likely to leave him a head shorter if he so much as attempted to deflower her, not that he would. He made a promise to himself that her virtue would be safe with him, and though he had the occasional slip up, he meant to keep it.

Cersei was in his chamber when he pulled the door open, looking resplendent in her misery. He almost held the door open, insisting she go, but he knew Tyrion would curse the missed opportunity if Jaime kicked her out. Tyrion had known she would come to him, though Jaime had not thought to see her so soon. She stood when he entered, and was in his arms before he had fully passed the threshold. He kicked the door shut and let her bury her golden head in his chest. “Why are you in my chambers, sweet sister?”

“Because they are _yours_ ,” she whispered into his neck, “Sansa is gone!” Cersei’s voice was wracked and wretched when she spoke, rough from use and thick with wine. He did not know how long she had waited for him, but judging by the nearly empty pitcher of wine on his table, he guessed quite a long time. “The little dove has finally flown away. I am sure she had a hand in it, in killing our son.”

“Sansa did not kill Joffrey, the girl was no wolf,” Jaime said as sternly as he could. The smell of Cersei was overwhelming his senses and he couldn’t help his fingers gripping her dress and her hair and her skin, pulling her tight against him. He had been half-hard at the thought of Brienne and the silk of his sister’s touch was making his need more apparent. He wanted to hold her, to push past her skirts and bury himself in her, but Galladon was there on the edge of Jaime’s mind, water pouring from his mouth. And Brienne, she was there too, her bright eyes wide and her pupils large, engulfing the blue, writhing beneath his fingers. She was all heat and hard, freckled flesh over sinewy muscles, her long legs shivering and gripping his waist. 

She was not Cersei and Cersei was nothing like her, nothing like what he really wanted. 

“Of course she is. I am sure, Jaime, she wanted him dead.” Cersei backed out of his arms and bared her teeth at him. “You don’t know how he treated her, he was cruel.” Cersei shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “She poisoned him. I want her head,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, he was cruel to her, Tyrion has told me as much, but she was not being made to marry him. She was under our brother’s protection, Joff couldn’t hurt her anymore. What other reason did she have?” He couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice, even as he tried to gently persuade her Jaime’s mind called up images of the things Joffrey had done. Tyrion had told him, in the sept, of Joffrey’s punishment of Sansa for her brother’s rebellion and her father’s betrayal. The boy had been as sadistic as Aerys. 

“He would have found a way,” she scoffed and Jaime saw his opportunity slipping through his fingers. His mind warred with itself, should he try to persuade her to leave Sansa, forget her? Or should her lie to Cersei, tell her that he would bring the girl’s head to her on a pike. That he would prove his devotion by killing a child? She had lied to him, for years she had lied. _Lancel_ , he thought, _Osmund Kettleblack, maybe the other Kettleblacks_. He gently unlatched her grip from his arms and walked over to the table, taking steadying breaths, and casually poured himself a glass of wine from the pitcher and drank deeply. 

“Still, you are right, she must be found. I’d like to question her about the King.” He kept his voice firm and kept his face in check when Cersei’s smile curled across her face.

“Father says he choked, but he was poisoned. Qyburn told me, father is lying. I want to send Ser Meryn after her, if I remember he beat her rather savagely last they met,” Jaime’s blood curdled in his veins. He shook off the feeling and smiled smugly.

“Ser Meryn? That idiot wouldn’t know his own arsehole from a hole in the ground. He’ll never find her, no, Ser Addam would be best I think.” Jaime knew his sister wouldn’t trust Ser Addam nearly as much as he did. She was never able to persuade him as she had done the rest of her father’s household guard. Ser Addam had been Jaime’s man, through and through, and that had been as far as she had him. And now she had him not all, though she didn’t know it.

“But the Kingsguard, surely, should be the ones to slip the little dove’s wings,” Cersei sipped at her cup and smiled at him sweetly, trying to persuade him to Ser Meryn he knew, but Jaime countered easily. 

“You’re right. A suspect in the death of the King should be apprehended by a knight of the Kingsguard, I should go. I will leave Ser Meryn here, we are too few. I would not feel comfortable leaving Tommen with only half a guard. We are already a man short and with Ser Arys in Dorne with Myrcella, we cannot spare another. I will take Ser Addam, a smaller party will move more quickly and will turn fewer heads,” he went to Cersei and cupped her face carefully. Her skin was cool and dry, paper thin. “I’ll find the girl, I’ll bring her home.” He touched her full, wine-stained lips with his thumb and smiled. “And before I leave I intend to appoint Ser Loras to the Kingsguard, I think he’ll do nicely.” Cersei’s smile widened and she pressed herself against him lazily, her legs widening as she slithered further into his space. 

“Yes,” she sighed, her tongue flicking out to wet the shell of his ear. He was aching for her, his hands clenching ineffectually at his sides. He hated himself for how badly he still wanted to pull her to him, to take her. “Now, if only I could be rid of Lady Margaery, the simpering little rose.”

“No, you must wed her to Tommen,” he forced the words out, his manhood pressing painfully at his breeches. Cersei stiffened against his, his announcement having the desired effect. She pulled away in shock.

“What?! No! How do you even know about that?” Her face was red from fury and wine but at least he could regain some semblance of control.

“Tyrion told me Mace Tyrell wants them married as soon as possible, he was afraid Sansa would be forgotten,” Jaime’s lies were less smooth than before but Cersei was drunk. He hoped that would be enough.

“I will not, I’ve told father, I don’t care what he says. I will not wed Tommen to that whore.”

“Let the children wed, Cersei, Tommen is far too young to bed her. The marriage can be annulled as soon as you like, it will buy us Mace Tyrell for now, long enough to quell the Riverlands and hold Stannis at bay.”

“We are already holding Stannis at bay,” she groused, sulkily.

“But for how long? We need the North and for the North we need Tyrion to get a child in Sansa. And we need the Reach, for that we need Margaery to wed Tommen. We have the Riverlands but we need Mace Tyrell to hold it.” His voice was gaining strength as he reasoned with her. He was no longer lying, but telling her simple truths she would rather not hear.

“We have Walder Frey,” she complained half-heartedly. 

“The Lord of the Twins cannot be trusted. We need strength to keep his allegiance. We have the West and we can have the South and the North too if we show patience and mercy, sweet sister.” Cersei smirked, nodding thoughtfully and taking a draft of wine to empty her cup.

“You sound like father, Jaime, except that part about mercy.” Her smile could have cut glass as she stepped towards him. Jaime stiffened and grabbed the pitcher from the table, clumsily pouring the remainder of the wine into her glass and smiled. 

“You’ve been here too long,” he said, hoping she would not argue. He had never, not once, been the one to tell her to leave. It had always been her rushing away, her pushing him from her bed. If she noticed she didn’t let it show, only smiled and kissed him long and full on the mouth before slipping out his chamber door. 

Jaime released the breath he had been holding and unlaced his breeches. In one fell swoop he was free of the laces and his smallclothes, his hand tightly gripped around his shaft and pumping furiously. In his mind’s eye, green eyes bled blue and then back again. Shallow curves, soft skin, tongue and teeth, all teased him mercilessly. He couldn’t tell which image brought him to completion, but the shame of it covered him like the sweat that clung to his skin in a sticky layer. Grinding his teeth, Jaime pulled his breeches up, not bothering to lace them, and collapsed into the chair beside his round table and took a sip of his wine. Lying to Cersei had been hard. He had never lied to her, not once in all his years. He had thought, stupidly, that she had never told him a falsehood either, but Tyrion showed him the truth. He had been so blind, too blind, to her lies. _Lancel. Osmund Kettleblack._

He slept like that, covered in sweat and dishonor and loathing, tossing and turning in the dark. When he woke up the sun was low, just rising over the eastern horizon. He broke his fast on fresh eggs and fried meat. He had intended to tell Tyrion of his triumph but received a note from his Uncle before he left his chamber. At least this missive was delivered by a scruffy looking page and not Lancel. 

Kevan was alone in his chamber, his large desk scattered with papers and parcels. He was younger than Tywin Lannister, but his hair was whiter and his middle wider. Jaime’s Uncle Kevan was a stolid man, but he looked happy to see Jaime. “Jaime, thank you for coming,” he said carefully. Jaime could sense the apprehension in his Uncle’s voice. 

“Uncle,” he replied, tilting his head and sitting himself neatly in the chair opposite Kevan Lannister. Jaime could see Lancel’s features in the boy’s father and knotted his stomach. “What can I do for you?” 

“I had hoped to talk to you about your father, this disagreement is not good for either of you,” he urged. He pulled a cloth wrapped parcel from beside his chair and laid it across the desk before Jaime. It was a sword, he could tell plainly. When he reached out and removed the cloth, it revealed a long blade of Valyrian steel with a coloring he had never seen before. Red and black swirled in the blade and the hilt was gold with a beautifully carved lion’s head pommel roaring in fury. There was a time when Jaime would have given his right hand for a blade like that, but that time was long gone. This was a gift from his father, the man who would marry him to the highest bidder, who had wed his sister to a brutish usurper of the throne and intended worse for Brienne. 

“We want different things, Uncle, what would you have me do? Let him buy me with mocking gifts? A sword fit to guard a king, but to get it I must give him my white cloak. Is that it?” Jaime’s Uncle frowned and shook his head.

“Tywin wants an heir,” Kevan started, but Jaime hooted and kicked his chair back far enough to prop his feet onto his Uncle’s desk.

“He has one.” Kevan looked at him knowingly; a smile on his face that Jaime thought would look ill-suited on his father. 

“You think you father a hard man? You think him uncaring? You think he doesn’t care for Tyrion? You think he disregards your loyalties?” Kevan shook his head again, “He was only as hard as he had to be. Our father was kind and amiable but his bannermen mocked him in their cups. They laughed about toothless lions, they borrowed money from us without bothering to repay it. When our father died Tywin had to rebuild, to gain their respect. He did it for you and your sister, and yes, for Tyrion too. Do you think he would have raised Tyrion if he weren’t Tywin’s blood and Joanna’s? He raised him as a lion of the Rock, no matter his deformity. But you are his heir, Jaime. He gave this realm peace, plenty and Aerys took his son. He gave the realm justice and was made to suffer the slights beyond count and the jealousy of a mad King.”

Jaime had never heard his Uncle speak with such fervor, or such candor. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“He is my brother. Do you not love Tyrion?” Jaime nodded. “He means well for you, take the sword. Keep the cloak if you must, but know that all he does is for the family name, for you and your sister and Tyrion.” Jaime took the sword up and looked at it in the morning light. It was a magnificent blade, forged with colors he had never seen before. 

“This is Valyrian steel, where did he get it?” As far as he knew Tywin had been trying to purchase a Valyrian steel sword from one of the great houses of Westeros for some time, to no success. His father never quite accepted that the Valyrain blade of House Lannister, Brightroar, was never found, lost forever along with Jaime’s Uncle Gerion, to the Doom of Valyria and the Smoking Sea.

“You father had Ned Stark’s blade, Ice, melted down and reforged.” His blood ran a little cold at that. Ned Stark’s steel in Lannister hands, there was something that felt wrong about that, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t want the sword. It was balanced well, and when he swung it experimentally he found the grip to fit easily in his palm and the weight to be near to perfect.

“Ice was a greatsword, this isn’t nearly that size. What happened to the rest?”

“There is a twin, Widow’s Wail. It was a gift for Joffrey’s name day,” Kevan shook his head sadly but Jaime wasn’t sure if his Uncle was lamenting the loss of the King or Joffrey’s abysmal taste. Widow’s Wail indeed, for Cersei was not just a widow, but the widowed Queen, and, oh, how she had wailed over her son. 

“And what has become of that?” He wasn’t exactly sure why he was concerned, but he found himself oddly curious about the whereabouts of his son’s gift. Widow’s Wail would have to be renamed, certainly, but it did not have to languish, rusting in a crypt somewhere beneath the city. His Uncle eyed him suspiciously before answering somewhat reluctantly.

“I believe it's Tommen’s sword, as it belongs to the King now, has been moved to the King’s armory, along with the rest of Robert’s and Joffrey’s weapons. 

“Ahh, yes, of course it is. I may have to head down there and take a look, see if it’s as beautiful as this one. Uncle, I am intent on undertaking a task and I was hoping I might get your opinion on the matter.” Kevan Lannister eased back in his seat and his face relaxed into a grin. 

“Certainly, I am happy to give my opinion,” he said easily, almost jovial now that his own task was complete. Give Jaime the sword. Check. Impress upon him the importance of the Lannister Legacy. Check. Everything after was secondary to his original goal as outlined by Tywin, Jaime was sure. 

“Sansa Stark must be found. She will not be accepted as a Lannister until she has one in her belly and the longer she is gone from King’s Landing the more chance of her returning no longer a maid. With her parent’s and brothers dead she is the key to the North. I intend to take a small party to search her out, though father insists I give up my place on the Kingsguard. I will go with or without his blessing, Cersei and I have already agreed upon the matter.”

“Your sister is not the Queen.”

“No, she is the Queen Regent,” he almost laughed at the words coming out of his mouth again, “until Tommen weds Margaery, and Tommen will sign anything you place in front of him.” Jaime tried to look smug. He knew that if this were a plan hatched by him and his sweet sister a year ago that is how he would look, like the Smiling Knight. He wasn’t quite ready to reveal to his Uncle, and by association his father, he and Tyrion were planning to find the girl themselves and spirit her away to he knew not where. And Brienne, he intended to snatch her out of his father’s claws with the same ruse. Killing two birds with one stone, as Lord Tywin would say. 

“Sansa does need to be found, yes. Jaime, your place is here.”

“Don’t you mean at Casterly Rock? That is where my father intends me, is it not?”

“I do not agree with him on that matter, I think you should stay on as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and your sister should be removed to Casterly Rock, but that is neither here nor there.” He paused, his long fingers rubbing his jaw in the same way Jaime’s father did when he thought about something that was giving him trouble. Jaime was sure he’d caused Lord Tywin to make that same face a great many times in his life. Finally Kevan let his hand drop and he scooted his chair closer to the desk, grabbing a quill and pulling a piece of parchment towards him. He spoke in the same breath, dipping his nib into an inkpot and scribbling, “I will write up a decree that your party is on an errand for the crown. Find the girl and bring her back, I would start in the Riverlands. Walder Frey has Riverrun under siege, but the castle is being held by the Blackfish. He seems not to have attended his nephews wedding. While you’re there you might settle the dispute if you can and see if he is harboring his niece’s daughter.” 

Jaime nodded, grateful, and rose from his chair. “Thank you, Uncle.” He was at the door when Kevan spoke again.

“How is the Lady Brienne?” The question sounded harmless, but Jaime knew better. His father and his Uncle looked different, behaved differently, but they were more similar than many realized. 

“She is doing well, I think she rather enjoys the Capitol,” he smiled casually and his Uncle grinned back, a mirror of feigned indifference. 

“She will need armor if she is to enter the Riverlands, there is still plenty of fighting happening between the Riverlords and I know of no Highgarden silk that can turn a sword tip. I’m sure Mott’ll be glad to have some made up for her.” His Uncle did not even bother to wait for Jaime’s reaction, turning back to the parchment before him and scribbling at it once again. He was tempted to deny it, but Kevan would know the truth. Jaime hoped that his Uncle intended to keep his secret. Jaime rather thought he could be trusted in this matter, if Kevan Lannister had intended to tell Jaime’s father he would not have mentioned Brienne at all. 

He left his Uncle’s chambers with a heavier swordbelt and a lighter mind, a worthwhile visit. His next stop was not Tyrion, regardless of his successes. It would have to be Addam. Jaime made his way through the castle, looking as important and ill-tempered as he could manage. He did not want to be bothered in his errands. 

He found Ser Addam in the yard with some of the other Lannister guardsmen. He was soundly beating a Knight from the City Watch, a man named Allar Deem whom Jaime disliked. Once Addam had finished him Jaime stepped forward and nodded to Addam from across the yard. Addam Marbrand was a rangy man, with light eyes and copper-hued hair that he wore long and tied back. Women rather liked him, he was charming and sat a horse well, a woman too Jaime could only assume. And though he was not directly related to Jaime, they shared a cousin, Tyrek, the son of Jaime’s Uncle Tygett and Addam’s aunt Darlessa. Unfortunately the boy disappeared during the riot that accompanied Myrcella’s leaving for Dorne, or so Tyrion had told him. Addam mentioned it as well, saying that he could not find the boy no matter how he searched, and how it struck him odd that not even a body was recovered when the rioters had left others where they lay dead in the street. 

“A word, Ser Addam, if you can spare it,” Jaime started as soon as they reached the edge of the yard, the other knights closing around a different pair of fighters. “How are the Gold Cloaks faring?”

“They number in the thousands and by order of your father I can’t pay them, and by order of your sister I can’t release them, ser,” he shrugged his broad shoulders at Jaime and shook his head. “Well enough, I suppose.” Jaime had heard of Ser Addam’s appointment from Tyrion, and he had to admit his father made good choice. Ser Addam was a good leader, and a better swordsman, the men would _like_ him. Jaime knew him though, and knew he would grow restless trapped in King’s Landing. He was a man of the field, a man meant to lead outriders and the van. He was not meant to be an idle commander, and gold did not suit him half so well as red.

They walked some ways towards the gardens, neither speaking, before Jaime finally stopped and addressed the Lord Commander of the City Watch. “I mean to ride to the Riverlands to search out Lady Sansa, I would feel better if you and a few of your outriders came with me. The Riverlands are war torn and if the girl is not at Riverrun, I make for the Vale.” Jaime spoke plainly; he had no need to mince words with Addam. 

His childhood friend grinned and clapped him on the back. “You mean to remove me from my post?” Jaime nodded. “When do we leave?” Addam was grinning in relief and, to his own surprise, so was Jaime. He had not realized how glad he would be to have Addam Marbrand with him. They discussed a few of the specifics, Addam’s choices in riders and Jaime’s guesses as to Sansa’s whereabouts, as they walked. Soon enough they were rounding one of the garden walls and Jaime spotted Brienne across the courtyard. She was hard to miss. She wore a pale yellow gown, cut high in the neck and straight across, a change he was sure Margaery specified to make Brienne more comfortable. She was walking with her recent benefactor and Jaime was surprised to see the two women alone. Margaery had her arm curled around Brienne’s elbow and was looking up at the Maid of Tarth rather sweetly. Brienne was not smiling, or laughing, but she did not look as tense as he would have expected. Margaery seemed to be having a good influence on the stubborn swordswench. 

“Would you look at that, little Lady Brienne, all grown up,” Addam said, following Jaime’s gaze. “Not so little,” he crossed his hands over his chest. “God, but she is big.”

“As tall as Galladon would have been,” Jaime agreed. “She’ll be coming with us, if you take issue with that, say so now.”

“She’ll be armed?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly.

“Then I’ll be happy to see her fight. I heard she trounced Loras Tyrell at Renly’s tourney. I’d like to see what she would make of me.” Jaime smirked as he watched the two women approach. When Brienne noticed him her face reddened, it was noticeable even from a distance. Margaery was wearing a gown of bright blue silk, the color of the sky, and her soft, brown tumble of hair was artfully loose around her face. She was practically towing Brienne behind her as she came on him and Addam. 

“Ser Jaime, Ser Addam,” she said, smiling sweetly, “what brings you two great warriors out to walk in the gardens with the ladies?”

“Matters of great import, my Lady, beautiful days are not the domain of women alone,” Jaime finished his little speech with a bow. 

“Indeed,” she curtsied. “Would you care to walk with us, sers? We could sorely use the company.” She smiled at Brienne then, tugging slightly at Brienne’s elbow. “Wouldn’t you like that Lady Brienne? You know Ser Jaime well, don’t you?”

“I know the Lady Brienne as well,” added Addam. “Though she does not likely remember me, we met when she was very little and always in the company of her brother and Ser Jaime.”

“Ser Addam,” Brienne nodded stiffly. She did not curtsy, which was probably a wise choice. Margaery held her arm out, smiling sweetly at him, her bowed mouth curving perfectly. 

Jaime smiled back and extended his arm, “Lady Brienne?” He asked, and Brienne flushed deeper and gratefully took his arm. “You are looking well this afternoon,” he said and she rushed a ‘thank you’ out before they began to walk side-by side. He had meant it. The color complimented her eyes, and though the gown was unusual it was not ill flattering. Not much could be done to make her look beautiful, but the gown went a ways in not highlighting her less attractive features. He noticed she was not wearing slippers, but the boots she had worn to meet with Tyrion. He could only imagine the way the leather crawled up her ankles and calves, over her knees, before giving way to the creamy flesh of her thighs. Margaery took Ser Addam’s proffered arm but he noticed the little Rose of Highgarden lick her lips as she appraised him and his arm, wrapped around Brienne’s. Those were the lips that had kissed Joffrey and called him her King and husband, and though it was said that Joffrey was his likeness he did not think she was appreciating his look as much as calculating her next move. 

“The Lady Brienne and I were just discussing Lady Sansa, and where she might be. I do hope she is well. We grew quite close during my time in King’s Landing. In fact, I had rather hoped she would marry my brother Willas, before she was betrothed to Lord Tyrion obviously. I think she would have just loved Highgarden.” Lady Margaery’s voice was appropriately wistful and Jaime marveled at how well she played the game. 

“Yes, I am sure she would have. Perhaps once she is returned to the Capitol her and my brother can take a trip there with you and the King?” The girl positively squealed.

“Oh I would love that? Do you think King Tommen might as well? I heard he is quite found of cats and my cousin Alla’s cat just had kittens, I was thinking that might make a good wedding gift. What do you think, Lady Brienne.”

“I think King Tommen would like that very much,” Brienne said, smiling. Though she had seen enough of Joffrey to know he was cruel, she had also seen enough of Tommen to know the boy was sweet and kind. Jaime found he wished Brienne might have had the chance to meet Myrcella, he thought the two girls might get along. Although he wasn’t sure he could be a very good judge of female companionship, seeing as how he would never have expected Lady Margaery to take such a fancy to Brienne. 

“And are you familiar with the whims of an eight year old boy, my Lady?” Jaime laughed.

Margaery smiled too but reached across Ser Addam to swat at Jaime playfully, “you mustn’t tease Lady Brienne, Good Uncle, it is not chivalrous!”

Brienne blushed at Margaery’s defense of herself but was mute at his side, choosing to ignore his barb, letting Ser Addam take the helm instead. “She does spend a great deal of time with you, ser, and are your whims so different than our young King? Talk of nothing but cats and swordplay, the both of them.” Margaery tittered at Ser Addam’s assessment of Jaime, charmed by his easy humor. It was no surprise to him. He was well acquainted with his fellow knight’s penchant for charming ladies, especially ones as coy and pleasing as Margaery Tyrell. Jaime observed the way she delicately danced around Ser Addam’s japes and flirted back carefully, easily. She was witty, sly as a fox, and as pretty as the roses of her house. To think his father had thought to offer her to Jaime was laughable. She was too cunning and decidedly lacking in innocence, two things that displeased him in a woman, Cersei having always been the exception. In fact, surprisingly, Jaime was again reminded of his sister while he watched the little Tyrell. They were opposites insofar as their look, but they both had been easily charming, sly, greedy and grasping in their youth. 

Margaery still was. 

Cersei had become something else altogether, something darker. 

“It is done,” whispered Brienne carefully as Margaery laughed. She was looking straight ahead, but she had absolutely spoken to him. Jaime nodded imperceptibly to all but her, squeezing her elbow as he did and poorly concealing a smile. 

“Yes, I have accomplished my errands as well this morning, perhaps a bout in the yard, my Lady?” Brienne’s eyes sparkled briefly but they dimmed when Margaery interrupted. 

“Oh, did you intend to spar? What fun, Loras will be glad of a bout. I am sure of it. What say you Ser Addam?” Addam looked to Jaime and he nodded back. Jaime had been Addam’s commander and the son of his liege lord for the entirety of his life, Addam would not move without Jaime’s express consent. It was a virtue that Jaime appreciated greatly. 

“I would be honored,” he bowed. 

They met Loras in his chambers and, after allowing both he and Brienne to don leathers, the four entered the yard with Margaery hanging back to observe. Jaime thought perhaps she would name Brienne her champion, but she kissed Loras on the cheek and tied a strip of cloth to his shoulder. At first Loras intimated his desire to try his hand with Brienne, but Jaime moved to fight her first. He noted the arrogance and irritability of Loras, finding it amusing how similar he had been to the boy in his own youth. Loras, cocksure and eager, still stung from his loss to Brienne in Renly’s tourney and Jaime was sure he still held a grudge for the death of his lover, whether he was at liberty to admit it or not. 

Jaime would have been the same, years ago. That is what being too good, too young, did to a man. It made him proud, over-confident. If the boy wasn’t careful he would end up like the Smiling Knight, or worse, he thought, _like me_. 

Brienne looked much more comfortable out of yellow silk and in breeches and jerkin. Her face flushed as she fended him off, letting him tire himself out on her before returning his volleys. He knew her method though, knew her footwork and her stamina, he held back. He parried, letting her think he was tired, old man that he was, before surging forward and tangling her up with his feet. Brienne did an admirable job holding him at bay, he was sweating and just as flushed as she was when he kicked her legs from under her and pinned her down with his sword at her neck. She yielded with unusual grace and let him help her up. As they had fought the world had slowed to stopping and when they stood, finished, the others were wide-eyed and grinning. Ser Addam and Margaery clapped enthusiastically, Ser Loras was not clapping but neither was he looking quite as smug as he looked before. Brienne’s eyes were alight when he bowed to her, thanking her for a good fight, and he felt an answering grin tug at his mouth when she bowed back, muttering the same.

Brienne and he made their way back to the fence to observe Ser Addam and Ser Loras take to the yard. It was obvious, very early, how well Loras fought. He had natural talent that Jaime rarely saw and a strong arm. He was smaller and faster than Addam, who was a great swordsman in his own right, and evaded the older knight easily. Addam landed a few hits on Loras, but the lad’s blade struck true more than a few times and very soon, much sooner than Brienne and Jaime’s fight had ended, Ser Addam was on his knees. He yielded with the same easy grace he had always yielded with. Ser Addam never cared whether he won or lost, it was the fight he liked. He was much like Jaime in that respect. It was the sword that made their blood sing and not the victory, no matter how good it felt. Brienne was much the same, and Jaime was curious whether Loras was as graceful a loser. He expected not. 

The party broke up to wash and dress for dinner, Margaery extending an invitation to Brienne that the wench looked like she wished to decline. Margaery and Loras would be dining with the royal family, as well as Tyrion, but his sister would most certainly be in attendance with Tommen. Thankfully Uncle Kevin and Lord Tywin would most likey be too busy to attend and Jaime would be standing guard. Ser Addam remained in the yard, that was where he had started his afternoon after all, and Loras offered to escort his sister, leaving Brienne and Jaime to make their own way. “She intends to request your presence in my party, then?” He asked when they were finally alone.

“She does. You have spoken with,” she swallowed thickly before uttering his sister’s name. “Cersei?”

“She intends to wed Margaery and Tommen within a sennight, as per Mace Tyrell’s request. And she wishes me to search out Sansa, my Uncle has already written out the order and Ser Addam has agreed to join us with four Lannister scouts to aid our travels. We must make for Riverrun before we go to the Vale, your Lady Cateyn’s brother lives and holds the keep there. The girl may turn to him for asylum. If not we will make for the Vale.” She nodded and gave him a hesitant smile.

“Tyrion will be pleased,” she said, running her hands through her damp hair. 

He left her at her door with a nod of his head, a brush of his hand against her cheek, and the promise that he would send a tub with water for her to wash up. Upon entering his own chamber Jaime saw that his Kingsguard armor laid out neatly for him by some maid or page, most likely sent as a slight by his father. The reality of their plan had become more apparent as he’d outlined it for Brienne, and the enormity of the betrayal did not sting as he expected it to. No. This did not feel like a betrayal of his family, of his sister, this felt like the righting of a wrong. Deciding to retrieve and deliver Sansa Stark to safety felt like honor, like justice. 

It felt good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a great deal of exposition and it really was intensely long! The next chapter will have some crazy exciting (I hope) plot development and will be a bit more back to normal. I shall also be returning to my normal posting schedule but I shall endeavor to speed this next chapter up to make up for this wait. Anywho, all questions, comments, concerns and criticism are welcome and appreciated. Please don't kill me though! Lol. See you soon!!


	20. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boo!!
> 
> A heartfelt thanks must go out to all of you! Thank you for reading!! And a great big thanks to _Snowfright_ , who beta'd this for me even though she is terribly sick and "99% sniffles and cotton wool."

Tommen’s wedding was nothing near as lavish as Joffrey’s had been. The Sept was deafening in the silence, not even a quarter full. The feast that followed the almost solemn ceremony was small and reserved, a dinner instead of a celebration. There were no singers, no jugglers or jousting dwarves. Jaime was glad to see it. Tommen was a more gracious host, regardless of his tendency to ignore his guests in favor of playing with the kittens gifted to him by his new wife. He smiled and danced, and happily accepted gifts of all kinds. Whereas Joffrey had spurned Tyrion’s gift of the Histories of the Great Kings of Westeros, Tommen adored the book of Dragon Lore from his Uncle. Ser Addam had gifted Joffrey with silver spurs that the lad had not spent more than a second examining, but Tommen fawned over a simple leather baldric fashioned to hold a small tourney sword. And Margeary, for all her simpering, was gentle and careful with the boy-king. She brushed his hair from his eyes, and kissed his cheek, and even let him sit on her lap, although Cersei cringed and dragged Tommen back into his seat soon after. 

Jaime’s thoughts were elsewhere, however, as his youngest son enjoyed the royal wedding. Ser Addam had spoken with his men, choosing to bring only three of his most loyal outriders for their journey. All were dependable men who were well known to Ser Addam, men of Ashemark. Jaime had asked specifically that he choose men from the Westerlands, ones who had limited to no contact with Cersei or Jaime’s father. Ser Addam had assured Jaime that they were good men, and better trackers. They would be able to get their host through the Riverlands safely enough, and into the Vale if need be. He didn’t want it to come to that but Jaime had a suspicion that Sansa would not be in the Riverlands regardless of her familial ties. The Blackfish would not have had time to call for her and did not have the connections in King’s Landing to execute her escape. No, he suspected Baelish was the culprit here, just as Shae had done. His suspicion alone would lead him nowhere, however. Jaime had to make sure to follow _all_ potential leads. If his brother’s wife was in Baelish’s custody than she would remain safe until their party reached the Vale, Jaime did not think Baelish would hurt her. Sadly, if he meant to spoil her, he would have already done so. A few extra weeks would make little to no difference for poor Sansa, who looked just a bit too much like her lady mother before her.

Brienne attended the festivities as she had before, though she looked markedly less sullen and she seemed to fit in rather more nicely than she had at Joffrey’s grand event. She was seated comfortably and safely between Addam Marbrand and Loras Tyrell, both of which were known to her. She dwarfed them not so noticeably when seated and Ser Loras was following Ser Addam’s and his sister’s lead in treating Brienne more amicably than he had. At first Jaime was sure there would be an argument when he’d seen how the two of them had been seated, but Margaery, it seemed, had worked on her brother and instead of threatening her again, Loras was telling Ser Addam of how soundly Brienne had beaten him at Storm’s End. She was blushing and Ser Addam was guffawing loudly as Loras described the event more comically than Brienne had to Jaime. They were a strange trio to be sure, and he felt himself growing slightly jealous of their easy conversation. He was standing in his whites behind the simpering Margaery, his oblivious son and King was preoccupied with Margaery and her kittens, and Cersei and his father. Lord Tywin was looking as he always did, rigid and regal, but Cersei was more sour than usual. Dethroned again, her expression was flat and her once vivid green eyes were dull. Ser Loras was looking just as miserably on at Cersei from across the table, while Jaime’s sweet sister cast her dead eyes on none other than Brienne of Tarth. 

He was reminded of the many dinners they’d shared at the Rock. Before Galladon had died, the two of them sat beside each other and across from Jaime and Cersei. It had been nothing to keep his hand wrapped around Cersei’s beneath the table. The four children were never alone and often maids and servants fluttered about, trying to keep Galladon and Jaime from flicking food at each other and to disparage their wild and clumsy eating habits. Cersei had thought it funny at first, giggling gently at Jaime and Galladon’s antics, but it didn’t last long. Soon she hated being with them, jealous that she was reprimanded more severely for similar behavior, being forced to sit demurely while they spoke loudly and fought good-naturedly, and becoming more and more jealous of Galladon’s and his freedom. And Brienne.

It seemed to him that Brienne had never been far from her brother’s side, meaning she too often baited him as her brother did. And, being younger than Cersei and less watched over, more than once she ended up on the floor between the legs of the table, a victim of his searching, laughing fingers on her waist, his strong thighs holding her in place. Galladon would hold Cersei back from his sister and Jaime, laughing at her rage, never realizing the reality of her abject fury. Brienne was more demure now, her big, freckled face flushing every time she caught his twin scowling at her. Ser Addam tried admirably to distract Cersei but his sweet sister was immune to Ser Addam’s incomparable charms. The only person Cersei looked gleefully on was the miserable Ser Loras. And even then she was only relishing the knowledge that Jaime intended to raise Loras to the Kingsguard and that he was sulking needlessly, drowning in self-pity over a marriage that would never pass. She seemed to think she had outsmarted them all, her eyes burning with delight as she cruelly observed Loras.

Jaime scowled. _What a beautiful fool_. Cersei was not just beautiful, she was radiant, but her beauty was not as appealing as her innocence had once been. She wore Lannister colors, always red and gold, and never the breeches she had stolen from him during her youthful fits of rebellion. She’d been trying to prove something then, and he supposed she was still trying to prove something, though he wasn’t sure what. Perhaps she was attempting to show their father how alike they were, or perhaps she thought the court needed reminding of her status and of where she’d come from. He couldn’t be sure these days whose opinion mattered more to her, their father’s or that of the courtly mayflies that swarmed the throne, he knew his certainly mattered little to her. She had come to him, yes; she had come when she wanted something. Just as she always had. She had invaded his apartments and railed and threw herself at him, pressed against him, and pleaded, begged. Now she was the Queen once more, if not in title than in demeanor, and wholly unaffected by his presence. 

It made him wonder how much of their love had been a lie, or a fantasy of his own making. How much had been real? Had she ever been true to him, loved him? Surely that night spent in Eel Alley, she had wanted him them. And she had gotten him, a loyal knight in white to guard her chamber door and come between her thighs when her husband was too drunk to notice them. She had gotten a father for her children and a sword to call her own. She had come to him then, in her hour of need, and he gave to her what she asked. If you give to a man in his time of need, he will remember you when he is again in need. The same rule, Jaime supposed, applied to women. 

Brienne was blushing at some insinuation lobbed at her by his sister and Jaime felt his face flush equally red with irritation that he held carefully in check. She was real, everything about her was real. She was honorable, honest, never trying to be more or less than she was, and she never asked anything of him. He knew if she did, he would not be able to deny her, as he had never denied his sweet sister. He still found it odd to have wants that were his own and not her desires, to have affections that were removed from his other half. Not just Brienne, although his desire for her was unsettling as well, but the desire to find and return Sansa Stark to safety was something he never expected to want. Jaime stared at Brienne from over Cersei’s shoulder, Sansa had been her charge, that had been her oath, and now it was his. 

“A wise decision, Lady Baratheon, you are right of course, she must be found immediately,” Margaery’s cloying sweetness made Jaime’s teeth ache. Cersei looked much the same as she eyed the new Queen with a barely disguised scowl.

“Yes, yes,” she mumbled irritably, “the little dove has flown away.” Jaime thought she would continue but Margaery went on, artfully ignoring his sister. 

“Ser Jaime, you already have a party in mind?” She turned her head and focused her brown doe eyes on him, they glittered with mischief. 

“Yes, Ser Addam and a few of the Lannister men intend to join me, your Grace. You and the King shall not be left unguarded, I assure you.”

“As long as my brother is in King’s Landing I have the finest knight in the Realm to protect me, Ser Jaime, but I do ask that you grant me a favor. The Lady Sansa is very dear to me, and I would be grateful if you might allow the Lady Brienne to accompany you in your search. I would feel better if there were another Lady in your group with whom she might be able to confide. This would be as a personal favor to me, Ser Jaime.” His father was uncharacteristically silent on the matter. Tywin had expressed some displeasure at both Jaime’s and Ser Addam’s departure from King’s Landing, but Kevan had dissuaded him from putting a stop to it. He was thankful he had gone to Kevan first. His Uncle had been an invaluable resource, along with Tommen’s signature. Although he was fairly certain his Uncle was all that stayed Tywin’s hand from tearing apart Jaime’s order to search Lady Sansa out by order of the Crown. Margaery’s subtle declaration of intent had Cersei pale-faced and his father’s jaw twitching. “That is, if you would not mind so much. I apologize for not mentioning it sooner, Lady Brienne.”

“I’m sure Ser Jaime can handle a little girl, your Grace,” Cersei interjected. Her pale face was stony as she glared at Margaery. To her credit, the young Queen did no more than titter and smile at his sister. 

“I am not questioning Ser Jaime’s prowess, or Ser Addam’s, I am simply concerned for Sansa. I understand how horrible it can be for a woman to be so long with only men.” She batted her eyelashes and looked demurely at the other occupants of the table. “I’ve been thinking, and I wanted my first act as Queen to be one that does some good for Lady Sansa, she has been such a comfort to me in these dark days after,” she brought her carefully manicured fingers to her pouty lips and blinked back shimmering tears, “Joff.” Her delivery was perfect. He thought that if she weren’t the Queen, she could make a passable living as a mummer. “You will do it, won’t you Lady Brienne?”

Tywin was silent, observing Margaery instead of Brienne, which Jaime was thankful for. There was no doubt that she was fooling none of the Lannisters, or her own kin, but the rest of the hall would take the bait. Brienne, however, was as easy to read as a book. It was obvious that the new Queen had not shared her plans with the warrior maid because Brienne was the perfect picture of shock. Her eyes were wide as she nodded emphatically, though he saw that she was holding a smile back from her overly large mouth and he had to bite his bottom lip to stop the smile he felt taking hold. It would do them no good to go on grinning like idiots. Someone would notice, surely, if they were both too glad. It would likely be Tywin, who could easily rip the joy from their grasping fingers. 

“Oh, thank you, I will feel so much better knowing you’re out there, with Ser Jaime, looking for Lady Sansa,” Margaery exclaimed with aplomb and he couldn’t help but notice the way Tommen’s new wife looked slyly at Cersei, her teeth bared in a gloating parody of a relief. Margaery could sense Cersei’s displeasure. Like a dog sniffing out a fox, Margaery chased down his sweet sister, dug her claws into Cersei’s belly and pulled out, raw and dripping, the thing that Cersei feared most, Brienne. His sister had always been threatened by Brienne, he supposed, though he’d never noticed, he’d been too busy seeing what he wanted to see.

“I will, your Grace. You do me a great honor,” Brienne said clearly, her voice finally found. “I will not fail you. I shall find Sansa and return her to safety.” Brienne nearly stood to offer her sword to Margaery but Ser Loras dutifully held her in place. It made Jaime nearly laugh from his place behind his King. Tommen was blissfully ignorant of the proceedings, happily pouring cream on his knees into the little saucer at the base of his chair for his new charges. 

Joffrey had found a cat once, roaming around the keep, when he had been near Tommen’s age. Joffrey had not fed the tiny thing cream, or treated it gently in the least. No, instead he had been viciously beaten by Robert after the King had found Joffrey, the kitten limp in his lap. He’d broke the defenseless creature’s neck, whether by accident of with purpose, and had taken one of Robert’s hunting knives to its belly. Robert found him wrist deep, covered in blood, in the Throne room. Cersei had cried and screamed at Robert the whole time Jaime washed the blood from Joffrey’s thin fingers and scraped the stringy flesh and fur from beneath his son’s nails. How had he not known that Joffrey was a monster then? Thankfully, Tommen did not seem to share anything with his deceased older brother, certainly not Joffrey’s penitent for violence. 

“Ser Jaime?” The Queen questioned and Jaime bowed, playing his part.

“If your grace thinks it best,” he replied. From where he stood behind his son, Jaime finally met Brienne’s eyes across the table. The candlelight was forgiving, making them glitter in a face that seemed slighter, softer than he remembered it being. “I would be more than grateful to have the Lady Brienne’s company on the journey, though it may be a long one. My Uncle informs me of a siege in the Riverlands that might be of some concern in the search for Sansa, beyond that it seems wise to venture into the Vale to meet with Lady Lysa before winter closes the pass.” Brienne blushed and nodded to him but said nothing. Margaery simpered, thanking him enthusiastically before going on to talk of something else entirely, losing his attention. 

As the new Queen played the table, her and her brother artfully carrying the discussion into tourneys and fancy, Jaime watched Brienne. Her eyes darted back to him more than once, though they never held for more than a moment or two before she would turn from him. Her cheeks were red but the glow of the candlelight hid most of the coloring. Ser Addam tried to hold her attention and Loras and Margaery were taking turns it seemed begging her opinion, but she could not keep from seeking him out. He couldn’t help but feel gratified, even though he knew he had no right and no intent to further his ridiculous obsession, but he had spent too long looking and dwelling for her not to cast him a second glance. 

“Oh yes, he thought he was very clever,” Tyrion laughed loudly. Jaime swung his gaze to his brother, who it seemed was mocking Cersei. In response his sister was smiling like a mountain lioness who had just glimpsed a Billy goat. “Lann, our namesake, handsome, with a silver tongue and golden mane, he died painfully and alone.”

“You’ve always been the clever one, brother, always so witty. You had best be careful,” his sister stared down Tyrion as she took a deep swig from her wine glass.

“You’re right, I am clever. Thank you for remarking on it, sweet sister, but I’m not half so pretty as you. I would _kill_ for those cheekbones.” His smile was just as cutting as Cersei’s, though surprisingly clearer. She’d had too much to drink, an occurrence that was more common than it used to be. 

“I inherited them from our mother, not that you would remember,” she spat across the table. There was a brief silence, only broken by the soft strains of a ballad. The minstrels had chosen a song about their Lannister ancestor from the Age of the First Men, which he assumed sparked the conversation. It was called ‘The Lords Daughter.’ Lann was a trickster from the Age of Heroes, and a hero himself. He was handsome and so charming that he was able to trick the sun into giving up some of its light to make his hair more golden. In fact he had only one weakness, women, and he had plenty of them. He fathered countless bastards all across the realm by many innocent and even not-so-innocent maids, but he did not marry until the Andal Invasion. He met and fell in love with the daughter or an Andal Lord, a young maiden. He wooed and seduced her using his trickery, making her think their nighttime trysts were only fantastic dreams. When he was sure she was pregnant he revealed himself and took her to wife. She was reluctant at first, but came to love Lann, and their first child, a girl who he gave his name to, is from whom the Lannisters of the Rock descend.

“Do not drag Joanna into your petty quarrels.” Tywin’s voice was low and dangerous, lingering over the table. Jaime watched as his brother and sister snapped their mouths closed, cowed by him as easily as they had been as children. Tywin had been a stern father, he suffered no disobedience, and every one of his children knew what it meant to cross him. Brienne too knew what it meant to anger Tywin Lannister, though she had not often been on the receiving end of his wrath, and she appeared to remember better than his sister what Tywin would and would not allow. Brienne sucked in a breath when Cersei mentioned her and Tyrion’s mother, invoking the term mother only to her hurt her little brother. There had been rules regarding the Lady Joanna, Brienne knew them as well as he did because she too had endured them. After Joanna Lannister died, the Lannister children were not to speak of their mother. Tywin would not allow it. Conversely, when Brienne had lost Galladon, she and Jaime talked about him every day. I was as if their words would somehow keep him on the earth, in their hearts. Tywin had been different. He couldn’t bear to hear her name spoken and his mouth tightened at the mere mention of the word ‘mother.’ They were expected to mourn her with whispers behind small hands, silently. 

“I think I shall join you, brother, if you’ll have me. Sansa is my wife and I fear our dear sister wishes to see me gone from the capitol. ” Tyrion was a better liar than any of them, and using Cersei’s hostility as an excuse to leave King’s Landing was artful.

“I would be glad to let you share in the glory, little brother, if Ser Addam is willing.” His friend laughed and nodded, lifting his glass to Tyrion and issuing a challenge Jaime couldn’t hear. “We set out in the morning after next, make yourself prepared.” 

“Oh, shall we _all_ go? We can make a family outing of it, Uncle Kevan, Lancel, won’t you join our little party?” Tyrion blanched comically but Cersei’s cruel laughter shattered the stunned silence. “I hope you do find the little dove,” she smiled, taking a deep sip of wine. “I am sure she misses her devoted husband as much as I miss Robert.” 

The conversation continued after the exchange, stunted and halting. All the Tyrell’s save Olenna and Margaery were subdued, and the scant few guests at the surrounding tables were otherwise occupied. Jaime wished for the night to be over and for their preparations to be finished. He had waited long enough, planned well enough, and every day that passed carried his query further away. He didn’t want to admit his desire to be away from Cersei, but the feeling was there, beneath his skin. It crawled, slimy, over his heart and constricted when he looked at her face. She was worn, her very soul creased by lies and tarnished to him. He longed to be away from the cesspit that had sullied his sister and back abroad, once again with Brienne. Though she was nothing to him but a dream, a dishonored man’s last chance for honor and a dark desire he held poorly in check, she was a light in the darkness. 

“Excuse me,” Tywin said, nodding to his brother and standing. They left noiselessly, followed closely by Tyrion and Lord and Lady Tyrell. Brienne stayed, he thought, longer than she wanted to and he hoped it was for him, but even she too was persuaded to leave by Ser Addam. Jaime had let Ser Balon take Tommen to bed hours before, and all that was left of the high table was Ser Jaime, guarding his sister, Ser Loras and Queen Margaery. Brothers and sisters, knights and queens, they made an odd group. When Margaery left, Ser Loras stood swiftly to escort her to her chambers without word. Cersei lingered, not speaking, and when she finally prepared to leave, Jaime walked behind her silently. 

“You are changed,” she said, her eyes cast before her, not bothering to address him directly but letting only her voice carry over her shoulder.

_Yes, I have_ , he thought, and let her go left when he turned right. 

He meant to walk to his apartments, meant to divest himself of his whites and settle into his mattress, to sleep deeply until the morning. Then he would rise early. Perhaps he and Ser Addam would take to the yard, knock each other to the ground a time or two. He meant to stop at his door. Then he meant to stop at Addam’s. Then he meant to continue through the tower and to his brother’s chamber, but he did not. He stood outside Lady Brienne’s thick chamber door, his fingers caressing the bronze handle like a flame licking the darkness. She would be on the other side, sleepy and excited. Margaery had made her move this evening and Brienne had accepted the quest before all the eyes of court. She might be shaky, unable to sleep. Her blood might be singing in her veins, flowing hot and fast into her fingers and feet, making her heart pump erratically and keeping her awake. 

His own blood rushed to his head, the heady feeling making him sway and his booted feet shuffle in the rushes for balance. 

“Jaime.”

He spun, right hand crossing his body and touching the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. Brienne hesitated, but did not back away. 

“My lady, I’m sorry, I thought,” he gestured vaguely at the door behind him and Brienne smiled. 

“Yes, I had intended to retire but Ser Addam wanted to try me in the yard.” A smile graced her features and Jaime knew what the outcome had been. 

“You crushed him, yes?” Her smile widened, reaching up and touching the corners of her eyes.

“Yes. And I fear Tyrion was quite drunk. Your brother had to be escorted back to his room when he fell off the fence laughing.” Her hair was windswept, her dress mussed, and her eyes glittered in the dim torchlight of the corridor. She looked young and fresh and full of hope. He had been right, the excitement was obvious in her plain features and it made her animated and lively. She ducked her head at his appraisal before grinning and moving closer to him. Jaime instinctively leaned into Brienne but she only put her arm around his side and pushed the door open behind him. “Would you like a drink?”

It would be foolish to follow her into her chamber, close the door behind him, foolish to drink wine with her. 

“Yes, I think I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my loves! As always I welcome all your comments, questions, criticism and of course your kudos!
> 
> **Happy, happy, happy Halloween darlings!**


	21. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they're off...sort of. A little bit of inner-monologue action before team "Find Sansa" gets their journey started in earnest.
> 
> The chapter might as well be called, "Jaime's dicklemma" or possibly, "Indickcision." So, you know, just be warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you _Snowfright_ , for being the most wonderful human ever and for constantly telling me I am a better author than I actually am. You are the best! Also, thank you to every single reader, whether you commented, kudo'd, or just got around to skimming this fic. You are all lovely.

Jaime’s horse whickered beneath him. Honor was tired, foaming slightly at the mouth from being ridden so hard, but he was determined to make it as far from the Red Keep as he could on their first day out. Brienne had kept pace with him, riding easily at his side, and Addam and his outriders were well ahead, having outstripped the group within the first hour of riding. They were only seen at midday for a sparse meal. Tyrion, Bronn, Podrick and Shae all rode together, seemingly comfortable with the arrangement. Jaime could only assume this was a habit born from their time spent together in Lord Tywin’s camp. Jaime was told, rather surreptitiously by Tyrion, that Shae had been a camp follower. Jaime had not asked, but Tyrion volunteered the information when Jaime inquired as to whether or not it was wise for Shae to accompany their party. He hadn’t realized she would be so familiar with their method travel. In fact Shae sat a horse rather better than Jaime’s little brother, but made a point to slow her mare beside Tyrion. 

Jaime didn’t mind, he was happy to ride beside Brienne. She was good company when he could get her to speak, although he thought she blushed more this day than any other since he had made her acquaintance. That said quite a lot considering how he enjoyed discomfiting her. He didn’t usually set out to make her blush necessarily, but to prod her into arguing with him. He enjoyed the flash of embarrassment in her eyes and the deepening color of her milk white, freckled cheeks. It reminded him of their youth, of the people they might have been. It allowed him to forget that they were not old friends. That still, after all they had been through, he felt he barely knew her, no matter how familiar they had become. He couldn’t help the childish impulse, and instead found the compulsion growing from the merest seed at the very beginning of their re-acquaintance to a great, blossoming yearning this morning. It was true he had enjoyed playing with her in their youth, wrestling and teasing her mercilessly, both with and without her brother. Another reason to tease her now, he supposed, but he found the impulse to be somewhat changed in his adulthood. 

Not two nights ago she had invited him into her chambers, offered him wine and her company, thinking nothing of it. It was the first time he had received such an offer from her. She had been more than willing to share _his_ space and _his_ time, only suffering his intrusion when he left her no other option. Not until that night had she volunteered her personal quarters to be trespassed upon by him. He had not realized the difference until he received the invitation. Brienne had not been in her cups, but not wholly sober either, and the wine made her movements more fluid and less unsure. He marveled at the casual way she moved around him, divesting herself of her boots, with more ease then he was used to without swords clashing between them. It was a level of comfort they had not truly shared since she left the Rock. He shouldn’t have followed her in, knowing it was a mistake, but seeing her so at ease, he still could not bring himself to regret the decision. 

Granted, she blushed now at the mere sight of him and stammered more than spoke in his presence, he was convinced her demeanor would ease with time. Already she was returning to herself, huffing at his more disparaging remarks and meeting Tyrion’s ribald jests with frowns that turned up at the ends, like a cat trying to hide a canary in its mouth. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, the roll of her horse shifting her in the saddle fluidly. She looked not in the least uncomfortable, totally in her element, though they had been riding much of the day and even Jaime felt it in his hindquarters. Her horse, dubbed Nym by Tyrion’s young squire, looked more worn that its rider and had slowed considerably, much like the rest of the worn beasts. She hadn’t spoken to him in an hour at least, he estimated, looking at the sinking sun. 

He’d had the opportunity to needle her not two hours past, when she had reluctantly joined Shae in a song. Her voice was quiet at first but gained confidence with each passing verse. Shae’s foreign tone was rich and low, like the rolling of thunder, and Brienne sang with her in harmony, higher and lighter than Jaime expected. The two women sang of maidens and virtuous knights and something that sounded to Jaime like love. Afterward Jaime had intended to make a jape about her lack of womanly talents, he had thought to ruffle her feathers enough to get her to confront him. But when the moment arrived, he could not think of one insult that wouldn’t be easily recognized for the lie it would be. Bronn had scoffed and convinced Podrick to sing a ballad with him even though the lad had seemed to enjoy the ladies' song more, and continued to hum it for a long while after all the singing was done. The lad suggested ‘Forest Lass’ after Brienne refused to sit through any rendition of ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair,’ and then Jaime enthusiastically sang ‘Six Maids in a Pool’ with Bronn. He chose the song just to see Brienne blush and was not disappointed. Tyrion joined in happily and Jaime could even hear Addam and his men singing from the surrounding woods. His companion scowled at his side, biting her lip and turning from him, but he could have sworn she was wearing another of those reluctant smiles behind her shoulder.

Eventually the sun began to sink low in the sky and the company stopped to make camp. Brienne was under the misapprehension that she would be sharing a tent with Shae, an assumption that Shae remedied quickly upon their halting. “My lion of Lannister sleeps poorly,” she pouted. Brienne suggested anyone else to share Tyrion’s tent but Shae or herself, each suggestion shot down with ease, Shae’s dark eyes glimmering merrily. Shae would share with Tyrion. Bronn and Podrick would set up tent near to the horses. Addam and his men would sleep farther off, taking a rotating watch. “I’m sorry, my Lady,” Shae practically purred. “Would you have Ser Jaime or Bronn ill-rested from having to share my Lord’s small tent?” Brienne gaped, her mouth eventually closing and her bottom lip twisting under her teeth as she tried fruitlessly to come up with something to save her having to share a tent with Jaime. Shae apologized but Jaime could hear the humor in her voice, she did not sound in the least apologetic. Brienne had reddened and stammered but did not fuss, only took her bedroll and laid it in his large red tent without question. She was a soldier, she would not balk. 

Addam provided hares for their dinner, which Bronn skinned and Shae would cook over the fire that Brienne had built. Podrick and Jaime took the job of wiping down and feeding the horses, Tyrion standing by as they worked, making jokes and purposely trying to rile Podrick. He was in good spirits and seemed to find something to do with Chataya’s amusing, although Jaime had a hard time picturing Tyrion’s squire anywhere near the notorious brothel. He hoped Tyrion would be in the same mood after a fortnight, he distinctly remembered how surly his brother had grown on their trip to the frigid North after Jon Arryn’s death. Thankfully the Riverlands weren’t half so far and not yet so cold. Tyrion leaned himself against the trunk of a tree and slid himself down carefully, crossing his stunted legs and smirking up at Jaime. He pushed some of his hair from his eyes, bending over to wipe the horses flank, and met Tyrion’s smug little grin.

“I’m beginning to fear your smiles, brother,” he said with a laugh. The sentiment was half true. Since his time caged by the Young Wolf and his harrowing first journey through the Riverlands, Jaime felt himself on unsteady footing. He had thought he knew Cersei and had come to find he hadn’t. He’d not thought of little Brienne of Tarth at all for years, yet she was constantly on his mind since the first day he saw her with Lady Stark. He had thought he knew Tyrion to be all jests and ribald japes; wine and wit and women, that was his little brother. He seemed wise now too, more than Jaime remembered, wise beyond his years, and Jaime felt uncomfortable under his smirking gaze.

“I think Shae is rather fond of Brienne,” his brother said conversationally. Podrick nodded and continued brushing, happy to escape Tyrion’s strange inquiries about something known as a Meereenese Knot. Jaime didn't respond. If Tyrion had something to say, then he knew enough of him at the least to wait for his brother to just come out and say it. “She finds your relationship intriguing.” Still Jaime said nothing. “I must say, it is a great deal less,” Tyrion paused and shrugged his shoulders, “unseemly. I think you’ve found yourself an ally.” Jaime was thankful that Podrick just went on brushing, studiously ignoring his companions. _Smart lad._ He gazed hard at his brother, once again near to questioning Tyrion’s loyalties. He loved his brother, loved him as he loved Cersei, but Tyrion was an enigma insofar as where his own loyalties truly lay. He had never been far from Jaime in their youth, whenever he could manage it, but as he grew older he relied more and more on himself. Jaime was sent to Crakehall and Tyrion was left to fend off those who would do him harm all on his own, Cersei included. He studied Tyrion’s mismatched eyes, one so dark to be nearly black and the other the same shade of green as Jaime’s but with a honey-colored corona around its center, but they remained unfathomable. Eventually his little brother scoffed. “Brother, I am simply saying that a woman, even one in mail, is a terrible thing to waste.” 

Podrick lost his grip on the brush he was using on Bronn’s courser and it went flying comically into the tree Tyrion was sitting up against. _Ahh, the truth of it._ Really, he had known what type of ally Shae intended to be, had known the minute they reigned the horses. He had also known his brother’s feelings on the matter. Tyrion had been straightforward enough to give his blessing, even if Jaime’s own honor could not. Still he couldn’t help the desirous little voice in his head, the one that agreed with Tyrion and hummed in satisfaction at the thought of sharing close quarters with Brienne for the duration of their journey. Tyrion laughed and stood, cuffing his squire affectionately before waddling off to bother his lady. Jaime could hear the beginning of an argument that ended with Tyrion grumbling while he rubbed dried herbs into the flesh of their freshly skinned game. 

“Ser,” Podrick inquired a little after Tyrion departed, his face covered in sweat and his eyes focused solely on the mare beneath his hands. “Are you and Ser- er, Lady Brienne...” The boy stumbled, tripping over his own tongue. It was amazing to think that the tongue-tied lad was in some way related to the deathly silent and imposing King’s Justice, Ser Ilyn. And from what Tyrion had told him, Podrick had been in his brother’s service for some considerable length of time. He really should have a better grip on conversation.

“What, Pod? Out with it.” Jaime tossed his small brush aside, patting Ser Addam’s mount on the rump briskly. 

The boy reddened and frowned, ducking his head briefly before straightening up. “The Lady, ser, you’re not going to…” He seemed to lose his courage as Jaime’s face soured, anticipating the direction of the boy’s questions. “Nothing, ser.” Podrick rubbed his hands together nervously, sloughing off the dust and grime, and patted his breeches before scurrying off in the direction of the cook-fire. 

He knew what the boy had intended to ask, even if Podrick couldn’t muster the courage. It was a good thing the lad hadn’t. Jaime would have been required to make sure the boy said not another word about it. He would have been gentle, brushed the squire off, and of course, assured him that Brienne was little more than a childhood friend, a fellow soldier. Perhaps gave the lad a threat worth thinking about, something to keep Pod from hindering Jaime’s half-formed plans or from sullying Brienne’s good name. Well, what of her good name could be salvaged from the wreckage of the moniker gifted to her by Vargo Hoat's men and the soldiers at Harrenhal. 

Kingslayer’s Whore. 

It might be better for her, easier, if she were nothing to him. If he had insisted she share a tent with Shae, and he had agreed for Tyrion to share his own shelter. If only he could find it in himself to abandon their quest and return to his beautiful, treacherous sister. If he could let Cersei ease his mind with the poisonous balm of her affection, if he were to drown his regard for Brienne in the heat between Cersei’s thighs, if he could let himself drown there as surely as Galladon had done in the Sunset Sea. Then Brienne could be nothing to him, and he would be nothing to her. Was that not what they should be? She was a maid, albeit a strange and ugly one, and he was a member of the Kingsguard, however sullied. They should be nothing but names, no more than faces in a hall, to one another. 

He brushed down Honor last, giving the horse a spare bit of apple and carrot. He broke the pieces up and offered some to Nym as well, who stomped happily and nudged his hand gratefully before rubbing her head against his own horse. Nym was a stout, dappled palfrey, grey and white, who was fond of Honor seeing as they were stabled together for no small amount of time in King’s Landing. Honor did about as much to dissuade this affection as Jaime had done to dissuade Brienne’s, nudging the mare back and edging his large body closer to the other horse. Thankfully Brienne was a woman and not a beast, a woman with a great deal of integrity. She had held him at bay herself, numerous times, avoiding him when necessary, pushing him away bodily in her chamber at Harrenhal, and making sure she spent as little time alone with him as possible. It left very little work for him to do on the matter. Still, when given the opportunity to turn her away, Jaime had let it pass him by. 

Instead he had followed her into her chamber and let Brienne fill his glass with Arbor Red. He had sat with her, their chairs too close and their legs warm against one another. He’d gone into her room that night, the night of Tommen’s wedding, knowing he’d wanted her, all of her. He’s wanted her freckles and muscles, her small teets and straw-dry hair, he wanted her regard and affection and to hear her laugh. So he’d followed her in and she told him of her dresses, which she still hated, and of Margaery. Brienne had regaled him with the tale of her bout with Addam. And all the while they continued to drink and eventually she even helped him to remove his armor, sometime after his fifth or sixth complaint about the heat of her chamber. 

It had been innocent at first, only a gentle kiss. 

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him. She’d helped him to remove his armor, had backed away as was appropriate, to let him divest himself of the plate, and he’d followed after her. He’d kissed her thick lips and nuzzled her heated cheek. She had gasped the way Cersei used to when he would sneak up on her and trap his sister in his arms. He let his muscle memory do the work, trapping Brienne as he had once trapped Cersei, and pulled her closer. She did not sigh or melt into him, she did not swoon, but instead she surged. She pressed her mouth to his greedily and hissed when he bit her lip, snaking his tongue out after to sooth the offended skin. He should have bid her goodnight and returned to his own apartments then. He could have had a bath brought up, or he might have found Ser Addam and consoled him on his spectacular loss. 

When his sweet sister had dismissed him, she said he had changed. He wanted then to believe that he had, hat he was a man with honor, who could uphold his vow to the Kingsguard and find Sansa Stark for his vow and not for the Queen. He thought that he would treat his unlikely companion, the girl who was raised beside him, as a brother was _meant_ to treat a sister. But no, he was not as different as Cersei might have assumed. He gripped her waist and dug his fingers into the silk against her skin, bunching it as he had explored her. She tasted of wine on her lips and salty sweat on her neck, her gasps blowing hot across his hair as he whispered apologies against her. Her finger scratched at his neck, his arms, his stomach, as they made their way along his body. His cock was pressed tight against her and the heat he could feel through her silk and the calfskin of his breeches was enough to make him push her to the bed and tell her he loved her as he took her precious maidenhead. 

He did not. 

Instead he released her, stepping away from her heat and into the bereft, cold world that existed outside of her muscled arms. He had gulped air and swallowed thickly, examining what his impulses had wrought. Her eyes were wide and glazed, the pupils blown and black against the thin line of sapphire blue that remained. Her lips were red and wet, plump from his teasing. Her dress was askew, and he had thought he saw a tear near the hip, though that could have been acquired in her bout with Ser Addam. The damp patch below her belt though, that was certainly not from the yard. He realized with a groan that she had dampened her smallclothes to the point that the silk of her dress was even wet with want of him. 

“Tell me about the yard, tell me about Ser Addam,” he had tried desperately, sucking in air like a man drowned.

She was silent for seconds, watching him, before she spoke. “Ser Addam is a good fighter, he is strong. His footwork is good, and he has a good arm. Though not your precision,” she said nervously, confused, her hands shaking from their heated kisses, “and he has no patience. Like you he wastes his strength early.”

He nodded his head briskly throughout her assessment. “We were fashioned for war, not the melee,” he started, breathing in through his nose and trying with little success to push his cravings away. “Battles are shorter than you would think. You’re not yet blooded my Lady, but you may yet see that saving your strength in a battle is not so important as finishing your opponent.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath, staring at him with wide eyes. 

“What is it like?” Her voice was soft as she edged closer to him.

“It happens so quickly- you’re done when you feel you’ve just started. You forget where you are and only the satisfaction of surviving and the ache in your muscles reminds you of what you’ve done,” he whispered into the space between them. He had groaned, wondering if she thought he was still speaking of battle. “If Catelyn Stark cared a whit for your honor, she should have let Karstark kill me.” He reached his hand out to the table and took up his glass, drinking the contents down sloppily and ignoring the way heat infused his chest and strummed in his veins. 

“I’m glad, Ser Jaime, that he didn’t. I’ve,” she broke off, blushing again, and he watched as she struggled with the words. “I’ve missed you.” Her voice was soft and firm, and her words, so innocent and honest, were sweeter than any he had ever heard. Such a simple thing, to say _I’ve missed you._ Had anyone else said so since he’d returned? He thought not. He’d cursed himself then for how he’d behaved in Harrenhal. He’d been like a green boy, manhandling her in the baths and parting her legs like a beast in her chambers. Yes, he had wanted her then, as unlikely as it had seemed, just as he wanted that night, half-drunk on wine and honesty. It was no excuse for the way he’d behaved. He had been trying to gain her trust since they left the company of the Bloody Mummers and doing a fair job of it, but it seemed that for every few steps forward he made with her, he was still falling back. 

“Brienne,” he said then. Her eyes were wide and so astonishingly blue as she looked on him. They had been dancing around each other, twisting and turning, pushing and pulling. She hardly knew the steps, and he was constantly stumbling, but still the dance continued. Sometimes they circled, blades drawn, eyes focused. Other times had been like this, their hard beating hearts and short breaths, bitten lips and tense ‘goodbyes.’ He was tired of the game, tired of leaving. He had vowed to protect her from himself, he had promised, but he already had broken _so many_ oaths. 

“Jaime,” she whispered, letting her head fall and studying the stone beneath her stockinged feet. She whispered when she spoke next. “Thank you…for everything.” 

He reached out, grabbing up her hand and startling her. He gently rubbed his thumb along her wrist, her long fingers tangling with his. Her pale hand had blue veins running under the skin and her pulse raced as she held onto him. He’d once told Peck and little Lew Piper to say sweet words, to treat every woman you took to bed as you would treat your wife. He’d told them to be gentle, but he himself had little practice with gentleness. Cersei was a trial on her own, and she already had a husband, she had need of a lover, of passion. Jaime had not been gentle with her, as she had never been gentle with him, but Brienne deserved the greatest care. He lifted her hand to his lips and let his mouth press against the back of her fingers. 

She was not pretty, she was not Cersei, but it was not an illusion of fondness that warmed his chest and swelled his cock. It was her. He gently tipped her head to the side, tilting his own lips up to meet hers as she was slightly taller than she was, and kissed her softly. She tentatively opened her mouth and he coaxed her tongue to join his gently. Their kiss was nothing like any they had ever shared, soft and slow. He made sure to keep his hands on her neck, and tangled in her hair. He would not grip at her, tug her to his cock and hold her to him. No. He gently released her, licking his lips and smiling. “Goodnight, my Lady,” he had said finally. He would send someone for the armor the next morning, choosing to leave it in favor of withdrawing while he still had the will to do it.

Jaime adjusted his breeches and headed toward camp, the memory of her tongue still on his lips. Brienne watched as he approached and seated himself beside her. She tightened her legs, as though to move away, but remained seated, looking at him shyly and inquiring on the horses. He answered her, happy that she was at least speaking with him. Shae handed out small iron plates with stringy chunks of meat with greasy gravy. Jaime took one and passed it to Brienne before receiving a second. She bit her lip but nodded in thanks, her tongue darting out as she pulled the plate into her lap. Underneath the muddied armor plate and thick padding, he knew her body would be slick with sweat from the heat of the fire, the blond hair between her legs dark and damp from the sweat. He thought of her ruined dress, torn and wrinkled and damp with arousal.

He had wanted to slip his fingers up her skirts that night, and the impulse hadn’t wholly left him. His son had gone to bed with his wife and slept chastely at her side, while Jaime, a knight of the Kingsguard and sworn to celibacy, had fought with himself not to tangle his fingers in the thatch between Brienne’s legs and slip his knuckles against her slick furrows. Jaime hardened at the memory and cursed the impulse while he pressed the iron plate against his lap, the remains of his meal a poor shield against his own mind. Bronn and Tyrion were talking, laughing about something that had Pod clammed up beside them. Shae was on Brienne’s other side, he was grateful that she seemed to be providing a distraction for him by keeping Brienne’s focus on herself. He had intended to beg off, but she ate quickly and stood before he had a chance to figure out a means of escape. Instead he watched her leave the warmth of the fire, his plate clutched between white knuckles, pressed hard against his aching groin. Once she was gone he ate more leisurely and chastised himself for not fucking Cersei when she’d given him the opportunity. She was still his sister, had been his lover for so long regardless of whatever wrongs she had commited. Perhaps the act would have quieted this seemingly insatiable appetite, it was not the first time he’d thought so. 

Shae rose too eventually, convincing Tyrion to join her, leaving Jaime with Bronn and Podrick, neither of which was inclined to talking with him. He waited long enough that he was sure Brienne had stripped out of her armor and there was no chance of him happening upon her half clothed, mopping up gravy with the remains of hard bread, before making his way to the tent they shared.

On their journey to King’s Landing they had reached a place of camaraderie, or friendship. They had been so happy to have Harrenhal behind them that they had been like children, tickling and wrestling, japing. He had teased her and touched her innocently, forcing from his mind the hungrier, more demanding compulsions that seemed to now be taking root. All of that easy companionship had fled from them as he’d met her kisses the night of the wedding. Now she lay in his tent, curled around herself and wrapped up in furs, shivering. It was colder away from the fire and the sweat on his skin cooled as he removed his tunic. He contemplated leaving, apologizing, he wondered if he should beg her forgiveness. He thought about covering her with his body, slipping his fingers into her smallclothes, crawling under the furs and wetting her mound with his tongue before taking her maidenhead.

_A woman is a terrible thing to waste._

He did lie down, in the end, and pulled the furs over himself, scooting closer to her. She stiffened but he only laid his arm round her waist and fit himself against her shivering frame. 

Eventually she would relax, and so would he, and the hardness at her back would soften, and they would fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me! I am sorry I haven't responded to all the comments ya'll have left, I really need to get to that, but I promise each one makes my day. Seriously. All comments, questions, kudos, concerns and criticism is greatly appreciated.


	22. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sieges are dull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we finally made it to Riverrun and we get to meet a few new characters too! 
> 
> I have no shame in telling you that we would not have made it if it weren't for my fabulous beta, _Snowfright_. She is amazing.

The days bled into one another on the road; wake, ride, forage or hunt, and camp. Repeat. 

Jaime lay in the tent he shared with Brienne, basking in the warmth of another human being and the softness of the skin at the back of her neck. Her brittle hair was had grown out since their meeting with Catelyn Stark, but it parted easily with a gentle nudge from his nose. Half-sleeping and half-waking, Jaime tightened his grip on her waist and fit his body more closely to her back. She was not small but when she slept Brienne seemed to curl in on herself. Jaime oft had to snake his hand into the tightly wrapped ball that she made herself just to get her to unfurl slightly before they fell asleep. His eyes fluttered but he let them fall closed again when she stirred against him. 

Brienne was waking up. 

Jaime could spend minutes, perhaps even hours, in the warm place between dreams and daylight. She, it seemed, always woke abruptly. He could feel her body tense beneath him when she gained consciousness every morning, as though she was preparing to strike out against the day. It was very frequently accompanied by a small gasp, as if she had forgotten where she was or whom she was with. He never asked about her dreams, he had his own to contend with and had no need to bear the weight of her demons as well. Although he did wonder about whatever she fought in her sleep that had her greeting the rising sun like a warrior prepared to fight a beast from beneath her bed. Of late his dreams had taken a dark turn, filled with blood and rushing water, Arthur Dayne and Galladon, Joffrey and Brandon Stark, and always, always fire. Aerys. Cersei was there much of the time as well, beautiful and taunting and burning. He would find himself in a room on fire, with his sister writhing and ready beneath him like a flame, but when he would look upon her face there was nothing of the light there, only black. Where her smile would have been, there was naught but an empty space. He would wake in a cold sweat, clinging to Brienne tightly with his heart beating rapidly in his chest. 

One night, not long after that first night of traveling, he had woken in such a panic that he had rolled her over and roughly grabbed her face, meeting her startled eyes as they sprang open. He had needed to see her face, needed to hold her. She had not screamed, not made a sound, Brienne only met him gasp for tortured gasp as he clung to her and pressed his lips to her neck and kissed the planes of her cheek and eyelid and temple. After, he had tried to sooth her, carefully releasing her from his strangling grip. He had apologized then, and turned away from her to finish the night alone, curled in on himself with his back cold. But she would not allow him to face his nightmare alone, instead she had hugged his back, her long fingers stroking his stomach gently and skimming the belt of his breeches. She was always so gentle, gentler than she had any right to be with her corded muscles and strong, calloused hands. She cradled him against her and breathed against the back of his neck like a mother would, or a sister, or a lover. 

Jaime thought of that embrace in the morning, those fingers on his stomach, splayed and stroking and oblivious. He enjoyed feigning sleep when she woke. It was childish but he amused himself observing how carefully and craftily she struggled to escape his hold without waking him. Sometimes she blundered so much that he could only wake, yawning enthusiastically and stretching. This morning she wriggled slightly, testing his hold and inadvertently rousing his cock. He smiled, knowing she was not facing him, and pulled her closer. He throbbed against the small of her back and allowed a sleepy groan to escape his parted lips. His fingers wandered up and were greeted with the swollen underside of one breast. To his sleep drenched mind he thought it felt somewhat fuller than he recalled, and softer somehow. Brienne nearly screeched and shot up from their bedroll, Jaime couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him at that. 

“Good morning, Lady Brienne,” he yawned, wiping sleep from his eyes and ignoring the shocked look on her face. “Sleep well?” She narrowed her eyes at him while he rubbed his stubble and licked his lips. 

“Very well, thank you. Did you sleep well, Ser?” He saw her eyes flick to his waist and he knew exactly what she was so surreptitiously eyeing. His grin widened. 

“I did, my Lady,” he sucked in a deep breath through his nose and let out a sigh, falling back on his pillow and palming himself craftily beneath their furs. “Though, my dreams,” he started, but let his words trail off, knowing she would scurry away from him, which she did. 

“I’ll be at the stream,” she said brusquely, grabbing up a bundle of clothes she had set out the night before along with a large, roughspun towel. He noticed oddness in her gait that he couldn’t place as she walked away, a sort of rolling to her hip that was not typically present. They had sparred the afternoon before, but he did not remember hitting her on the thigh or hip. She was gone before he had long to think on it. It was early, if he had to guess by the chill and the semi-dark he had spied when she pushed back the flap, but it sounded as though Bronn and his brother were awake. He listened as they greeted Brienne cheerfully. Addam too called a greeting. 

“How do you find your sleeping conditions, my Lady? Has my dear brother allowed you the lion’s share of the bedding as is your due, or has he taken it all for himself?” He could practically hear the blood rush into her face. He wondered how she would answer Tyrion’s loaded question. He had to admit that his brother, Bronn and Addam had been, for the most part, well-behaved when it came to Brienne. It helped that Jaime had leveled a menacing stare or two at his brother and Addam when they’d made an insinuation that had driven Shae to twist Tyrion’s ear rather violently. 

“Ser Jaime has been very generous,” she replied quickly. Jaime nearly let himself laugh at her blunder but held his breath as he waited for his brother’s response. To his surprise Tyrion said nothing. It was Bronn’s gruff voice that replied.

“I’ll bet he has,” said the grizzled sellsword lazily. 

Addam guffawed, “You’re the only one who thinks so, my Lady.”

“I’ll be at the stream,” she muttered so low he almost didn’t hear her. Jaime sat up, grabbing his clothes and pushing the tent flap roughly upon. He stormed from the tent, glaring at his brother and Tyrion’s sellsword friend. Bronn eyed him in amusement but not fear. Jaime curled his toes in the cold, dewy grass beneath his feet and wished he’d had the forethought to slip on his boots before rushing out.

“I’ll join you, my Lady,” he said firmly. “It would not be safe to have you bathe alone.”

“You will not,” Shae ordered, cutting-off whatever protest Brienne had been about to make, “I shall accompany the Lady.” Immediately the woman fell into a roll entirely different to the one she had been in the last fortnight of their travels. She demurely stood and took the clothes and towel from Brienne’s arms with ease, falling into step beside her and leading Brienne away from camp. Shae had, once again, become the dutiful handmaiden. Considering the lusty things she discussed with his brother, which pertained to Jaime and Brienne and which Tyrion took a great pleasure in relaying to him particularly when Jaime was preparing to bed down for the evening, it was a strange turn of events. Addam was sat beside Tyrion, a fat bird of some kind roasting over the small fire in front of him. On Tyrion’s other side, perched on a large flat rock, was Bronn, sharpening his sword. The knights were haltingly discussing their choice of routes to Riverrun from their current location.

They did not risk the King’s Road. It was too dangerous and rife with bandits and soldiers of constantly shifting allegiance. Instead they took the Gold Road. Seeing as Jaime had no wish to journey to the seat of the Westerlands and he was sure Brienne would notice if he absconded with her to Casterly Rock anyway, they had stayed on until they’d reached the Blackwater Rush. Brienne was a skilled seafarer as she had already proved to him, learning to swim before she walked, and excellent rower, but Jaime was reluctant to send away their horses. Instead they followed the Rush until they reached Stoney Step, camping near to the river. Thankfully they were upstream and the water was running clean. Addam’s men had reported that the smallfolk of the Riverlands spoke of “grey water” in many of the tributaries and streams, the banks littered with dead fish and bloated carcasses rotting in the waves and tainting the water. This afternoon Jaime expected them to reach Pink Maiden. There they would stop and rent a few rooms at an inn, the next morning they would start back on their journey, renewed by a good night’s sleep and a hot meal. They would follow the Red Fork until they reached Riverrun, staying close to the borders of The Reach and the Westerlands had allowed them to avoid much of the fighting but he wanted them to be fresh for whichever of the seven hells they found when they reached their destination. He and Addam had discussed the path at length before they’d departed from King’s Landing, and so far the route had served them well. 

“Brother. Ser Addam. Bronn.” Jaime nodded to each in turn as he approached and sat himself on a moss covered log, his breeches unlaced and his hair sticking up awkwardly as he ran his fingers through it.

“You sleep later and later, Ser,” Addam began with a smile, “all the while this hard ground wakes me earlier every morn. I remember you being an early riser.” Addam’s cheeky remark glanced off Jaime easily.

“Yes, I rose so early nearly every morning I used to see off that girl that kept you so late abed. What was her name, the one that cut off that man’s leg on the field?” Jaime made a show of thinking and shook his head, seemingly giving up.

Addam only chuckled. “Talisa, she was Volantii. I’ll have you know she saved that man’s life.” 

Jaime snapped his fingers and pointed to his friend. “That’s the one, she _was_ a screamer. And what did you call the other one, the one with ginger hair that kept you up so late into the evening?” This time Tyrion guffawed and Addam only grinned wider. 

“Ah, yes, Amy. Kissed by fire,” his friend responded. 

Addam had an insatiable appreciation for women. He had never married but nor did he whore the way that Robert had. Addam genuinely enjoyed these women that he took to bed, he was always gentle with them, always spoke to them first, and always gave them moon tea after. Addam had not one bastard in Westeros to Jaime’s knowledge. “Gatehouse Amy, that’s the one. I am not an early riser; you are only without a reason to stay in your tent.” 

Addam grinned lecherously. “I am, but you aren’t.” Jaime narrowed his eyes but said nothing, there was nothing he could say to make either his friend or his brother believe that his affection for the ugly wench that he shared a bedroll with was anything other than romantic in nature.

“Busy man,” Bronn interjected, his hand sliding back and forth over the edge of his blade absentmindedly.

“I was,” Addam sighed, mourning his losses.

“Weren’t talking about you,” Bronn replied without looking up, “I was talking about him.” Bronn gestured in Jaime’s direction. He looked up from lacing his breeches properly and tucking in his tunic, waiting for an explanation. He didn’t have to wait long. “Ya must have been mighty busy, too busy to take a girl to bed yourself, not too busy to look though, eh? Or you always keep track o’ all the cunts in your camp?” 

Jaime almost answered but Tyrion always had the quicker tongue. “And not too busy now, it seems,” his brother answered slyly. 

Bronn’s coarse laughter stroked a beast with Jaime’s chest and he grinned ferally at his brother before answering. “I confess, I am beginning to understand you little brother,” he smirked. “It is em>hard to leave a bed so well warmed.” Lifting the skewer from the fire, he tore off a piece of hot flesh and put it in his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, and ignoring the looks of dumb surprise on the faces of Addam and Tyrion, Jaime crossed his legs in front of him. “Addam, what can you tell me of the Red Fork?”

His friend blinked twice before reporting like the soldier he was. “After Pink Maiden it should be no more than a day or two to Riverrun, Ser. The banks of the Red Fork are clear for at least the next couple miles, a league I’d say. We’ve seen little to no activity south of Riverrun but the smallfolk are scared. The Mountain has been through here, and Dondarrion. The crops have been burned, and the woods have been over hunted. Food will be scarce the closer we get, Ser.”

He stood abruptly, wiping grease from the roasted bird on his breeches and cracking his back as he stretched. “We leave in an hour, be ready.” 

The woods surrounding their little camp sight were lush and green, but the first signs of autumn and the coming winter were already invading. The green foliage was dotted with yellow and red. Leaves kicked up from the road and fluttered from overhead branches as he walked, flower petals seeming to cushion the ground where he walked and the flowers themselves coloring the underbrush. In the stream where Brienne was bathing the leaves fell in a parody of snow, landing on the surface of the water delicately. It seemed that she was a giantess then, hemmed in by an armada of gold and red Lannister ships spinning in her wake. She was shoulder deep with her back to him, her hair slick with water and glinting in the rising sunlight. On the bank Shae was talking animatedly, Brienne’s towel resting in her lap and her feet bare on the rock in front of her. 

“Peeping, truly brother, it is beneath you…and they call me the ‘demon monkey,’” Tyrion sighed, leaning against a tree trunk beside him. Jaime cursed whatever ailment of his mind that kept him from noticing his brother’s arrival. He was a soldier and being caught unawares made him edgy. 

“I want to reach Pink Maiden early enough to get rooms at an inn and a decent meal, if that means cutting short their bath then I’m going to do it. You do want a bed to sleep in brother, do you not?” He swiveled his gaze from Brienne to his brother, who was looking smug.

“I do,” Tyrion nodded. “Shae is really softer than most mattresses but perhaps you have a point. I think she is beginning to resent me for using her as a pallet.” 

“I can’t imagine why,” Jaime remarked. 

“The question is whether or not you are ready to relinquish our Lady Brienne, dear brother?” The jape rankled him, but when he opened his mouth to retort Jaime stopped short. His brother was observing Shae carefully, his eyes soft and a smile stretching the scar across his face. It was the look of someone sick with love, Jaime would know. He had seen Tyrion with Tysha, and he had seen the first time Cersei had lain eyes on Rhaegar Targaryan. And much later he had seen it when Rhaegar looked on the fiery Lyanna Stark. Tyrion looked how he felt when he was with Brienne. 

He couldn’t stand to watch any longer and began walking slowly away, waiting for Tyrion to follow him. As he expected, his little brother rose and waddled up beside him. Tyrion was thankfully silent as they entered camp, not even bothering him for an answer. He could have roused them out of the water, should have, but the warmth of the morning and the unusually pleasant picture the women made stayed him. Brienne was almost childlike in the way she hid beneath the water. He could easily picture her large hands clutching at her breasts as she sank beneath the waves, protecting her innocence from prying eyes that would cast their rough gaze on her. And Shae looked more a mother than the whore Jaime knew her to be, and he rather admired the deft way she handled his childhood companion. Though they had limited contact, Shae seemed to be making a good impression on her. Though, if her affection for him was anything to go by, perhaps Brienne was not the best judge of character. She let him hold her through the night, sleeping more easily in his arms than out, ignoring the wrongs he had committed and the atrocities he had yet to achieve. Though he had not dared to kiss her again for fear that he would lack the control to stop, and she had not implied that he would be welcome to, he found himself still unduly fascinated by her. 

They rode hard to Pink Maiden, hard enough that Tyrion could be heard complaining loudly of his saddle sore to anyone within hearing distance. Jaime was anxious to reach town, and even more anxious after Addam reported to him at midday. The riders had come across men swinging, left to rot, dotted around the surrounding woodlands. A veritable feast, Addam had told him, for the crows of the Riverlands. It meant bandits, more than expected, and from what Addam described, these bandits were more violent than Jaime had been told. He knew of the Brotherhood without Banners, a pale comparison to the Kingswood Brotherhood, and he had no fear of them. Yet Addam told a story relayed by smallfolk, that the man who had held the brotherhood in check was gone. Beric Dondarrion was dead. Instead now they followed a woman, a vile, virulent thing filled with rage and blood lust. The people of the villages surrounding Pink Maiden, those that were left in the ravaged countryside, feared the Lady Stoneheart. They told stories of a half-dead corpse, a cloaked and hooded demon without a face, of a hanged woman who passes judgment like the Stranger. After midday Addam and his riders stayed close to the small procession and Jaime was still uneasy. This Lady Stoneheart didn’t scare Jaime. She was most likely not a person at all but merely a story to replace the dead Dondarrion. What struck him as odd was Dondarrion being replaced in the first place. He was, apparently, a hard man to kill. 

“Beric Dondarrion was a fool,” he said evenly, more to reason things out to himself than for any desire to have a conversation. The sun was hanging low in the sky and touching the tops of trees with pink, they weren’t far off from Pink Maiden. No more than a half hour by Addam’s estimation, even at their considerably slowed pace. Brienne eyed him from her saddle. 

“Mayhaps. I did not know Beric Dondarrion,” she replied stiffly, finding his insult distasteful.

“Did you not? He was of an age with you I think, younger perhaps. Yes, I think no more than three-and-twenty he would be now, or thereabouts. House Dondarrion is sworn to Storm’s End, and yet you do not know him? I find that hard to believe, my lady.” Jaime watched as Brienne fidgeted in her saddle under his gaze, sighing exasperatedly when he refused to look away from her.

“I knew of him, yes, but I never met him. I was not much at Storm’s End. When Renly called his banners we were told that Ser Beric was already dead by the lance of Gregor Clegane.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly, as though pushing off the memories of her time in Renly’s camp. She would do well to, his father would not tolerate her fondness for the dead not-quite-king Renly. 

“He was a good man, zealous for knighthood. He was unseated by Thoros of Myr in Ned Stark’s tourney. He should have returned to the Dornish Marches then, but Ned Stark enlisted him on that fool’s errand to rein in my father’s stray dog. Ned Stark should have known an unseasoned man like Dondarrion couldn’t take down the Mountain. Dondarrion should have gone off to Dorne, married that Dayne girl, and never come back again. Instead he died in the Riverlands…twice.” 

Brienne rolled her eyes at him. “Obviously the Mountain _didn’t_ kill him,” she scoffed. 

“Perhaps not,” he had to concede. Still, something about the situation made him edgy. This was not the first time he had heard of Beric Dondarrion’s dying, not even the second or third. While in King’s Landing he had heard no less than five reports of the death of the Lord of Blackhaven. This would be at least his sixth visit from the Stranger, or at the rate he was being killed, possibly his seventh or eighth. Jaime didn’t know what to make of the rumors, but they were unsettling and this new leader sounded much worse than Dondarrion ever was. There had been raids and yes, dead men, but there had never been so many twisting in trees. No, Dondarrion’s kills had been in skirmishes, the men dying now seemed to be slaughtered. They had no other wounds. Clearly they had surrendered or at the least had been ambushed. _Like Whispering Wood_ , he thought. “But I’ve never known a man to get up from a lance blow delivered by Gregor Clegane. If you knew him, my lady, you would be just as disbelieving.” When she met his eyes again he saw the same doubt there he felt in the pit of his stomach, the same sick quiver. 

The five times Beric Dondarrion died and lived. The Brotherhood without Banners taking orders from the whispers of a thing dead, a hanged woman. Ravens who bear strange news from the North. A shadow burying it’s blade in the gorget of a man who would be a King. He didn’t know what any of it meant, but it felt important somehow.

When they reached Pink Maiden Jaime felt the tightness in his chest subside slightly. The Brotherhood was a fringe group, they would not be lingering close to a town the size of Pink Maiden. Unfortunately he was sure they would have eyes there as sure as they had eyes in every other village and town in the Riverlands. Thus far Addam had kept them undetected, but that could end at Pink Maiden if they weren’t careful. Addam and his riders booked rooms in the Inn of the Paddling Pig. They were a small group of nondescript men, mostly from Ashemark, unknown to the patrons and marked easily as roving sellswords. They booked enough to have one room each, which in reality would be divided amongst their party. One for Addam and his riders, one for Tyrion and Shae, one for Bronn and Pod, and of course one for himself and Brienne. Brienne and he wore thick black cloaks much of the afternoon, spattering them with mud and all other manner of road-wear. When they entered, the two of them jovially and loudly met Addam’s party. Jaime kept his head down, adopting an Ashemark accent that made Addam grin, and Brienne deepened her voice. The barkeep didn’t look twice at the fellow travelers of his new guests, only placed tankards before them at Addam’s request and let them to themselves the rest of the night and the morning. They ate quickly and were to bed before sundown and gone again afore the sun rose. 

Riverrun loomed foreboding before them, a castle in siege, and the flapping banners of red, gold and smoky grey snapped in the chill air. Every day grew cooler, the dew on the morning grass turning frosty as they closed in on the castle. They were met by Lannister bannerman and the Warden of the West, his cousin Daven. The trumpets blared at their arrival and in the blue of dusk Jaime could clearly make out the outline of riders coming to greet them. Amongst his cousin’s men Jaime saw Ser Gavyn and Ser Mikal, the scouts Addam had sent out as they prepared to leave that morning. His cousin was a grizzled man with lively hazel eyes that reminded Jaime of Tyrion and a pug nose. “Jaime,” he roared as the two parties neared each other. “You look well, and bearded too,” he laughed heartily at Jaime’s golden hued growth from their journey.

“Coz,” he replied, not unkindly. He rather liked his cousin Daven, though his sister didn’t trust the man. “Mere stubble compared to the hedgerow on your face. Has the Blackfish broken your razor?” 

“Aye, I like a bit of hair on the face. The nights grow colder,” his words held no darkness but Jaime couldn’t help the ominous words that slipped from his mouth next.

“Winter is coming.”

“Aye. Damned Stark’s are always right, even from the grave. We feared for you after Whispering Wood. I heard Robb Stark’s direwolf ripped out your throat.”

“Did you weep for me?” He asked with smile.

“Half of Lannisport was in mourning,” he nodded, grinning. “The female half.” Jaime could feel Brienne blushing at his side and watched as Ser Daven swung his gaze on to her a whistled. “But when I heard little Brienne got a hold of you I knew you’d be alright. Gods, girl, you’ve grown up big. How tall are ya, coz?” He asked. Jaime didn’t feel the need to correct Daven, as Brienne would have been his cousin had her and Jaime been married as they were supposed to have been. 

“Six foot and three inches, Ser,” she answered him shyly. 

Ser Daven laughed and whistled again, “Gods be good. And Tyrion, how tall are you now?” Daven asked as though he was speaking to a young page or squire. Tyrion smirked at their cousin’s tone and pushed back his hood to greet him. 

“I fear I’m not growing up anymore, coz, just out.” He held his hands to either side of his hips and Ser Daven slapped his horse with a guffaw. 

“Too right you are! Well, come on then you three. We need to talk.” He led them down to camp and had his men help to set up tents for them to stay in. Jaime noted that Brienne was given a separate tent and wondered if she would be making use of it later or if he could rely on her to come to his. They would not be far apart, wagering he could make the walk in the dark to her tent if needs be. He didn’t want her sleeping alone surrounded by these men if he could help it. Ser Daven had braziers lit in his tent when Brienne, Tyrion and Jaime entered, and a squire mulling wine for them. Podrick and the others set about tending to the horses and stowing their supplies. 

Once they were seated comfortably around his cousins table the squire served them wine. “How goes the siege?” He asked, curious what his cousin thought of the proceedings.

“Bloody boring, if you want the truth, dragging on like it is. The Blackfish sits in his castle and we sit out here with our thumbs up our arses. The least Tully could do is send a sortie to remind us all we’re at war, my men could use a fight. I wouldn’t mind him culling some of the Frey’s too, if I’m honest.” His cousin shrugged and leaned back, taking a sip from his wine cup. “Ryman’s a drunk, Edwyn is more full of hate then a boil is filled with pus, and Emmon…gods, our own _Lord Emmon_. If you don’t mind my saying, your father could have done better in choosing a Lord of Riverrun. Little sot is so taken with his new seat he’s started telling me how to run my siege. He don’t want me damaging his new castle.” Daven scoffed and beckoned his squire to refill his cup. Jaime drank and let the warmth spread in his chest, leaning more comfortably in his seat. “Each one o’them is bleating in my ear day-in and day-out.”

“Any other Frey’s you’d like dead, coz?” Tyrion asked with a laugh and Ser Daven grinned. 

“Sure, but the others aren’t nearly so pressing. Ser Perwyn is a good sort and you might as well let the women live, I’m to marry one I hear.”

“Our father had a hand in that, no doubt. He seems to be doing a fair amount of Match-making of late.” Jaime rolled his eyes at his father’s penchant for judicious use of betrothals in war. 

“He did, might have consulted me first though. My father was in talks with Paxter Redwyne about his daughter Desmera,” Daven groused. “She’s as spotted as a mare, but half of Frey’s brood look like stoats.” 

Even Brienne tittered at that before realizing what she was doing and covering her mouth with her cup. “Be careful who you say that to, the Frey’s are very serious about their marriage contracts,” said Jaime, thinking of the Red Wedding.

Tyrion nodded sagely and Ser Daven took another deep swig of liquor. “Oh, never fear, I’ll wed and bed my stoat. I know what happened to Robb Stark.”

Brienne blanched and Jaime pushed to change the subject quickly, knowing she had no love for Robb Stark but was still pained by the loss of Lady Catelyn. “What is your disposition, coz? What am I too expect?”

“The Blackfish won’t treat with me, he might with you but I can’t say. We’ve got men with nets on the river, as long as there’s fish we'll not starve but neither will he. He picked the land clean before he went in there and turned out all unnecessary mouths before shutting the gates. They’ve got enough food in there to keep him, his men, and all their horses well-fed for two years or more. Would that you were here earlier, the men wouldn’t vex you the way they been vexing me.”

“Tell me,” he demanded, taking command easily. 

“I been busy building siege towers and rams, Ryman built a gibbet. He drags Edmure Tully up there every day and threatens to hang him. Never does no good ‘cause he never so much as tightens the noose around Edmure’s neck. The Blackfish pays the mummer’s show no attention, so every night Edmure comes back down and eats with the rest o’ us. I got Northmen that came to us after the Red Wedding but they’re a sullen lot. And I got Westerling tugging at my sleeve about his daughter, Robb Stark’s widow. The Blackfish has her and her mother in the castle. And Dondarrion’s men are still about the countryside, lighting fires in high places for some new god.”

_An old god for an old man_ , he thought. Jaime tried to remember Jeyne Westerling again but came up with nothing. Perhaps he had met her once, he had tried to remember her too when Roose Bolton had mentioned her marriage to Robb Stark, but the Westerlings were an old family, and poor, they had little contact with the Lannisters. “Thoros of Myr is with him,” he said absently. The fat myrish priest didn’t scare him any more than Dondarrion did, but the hanged woman, that was a new story and it seemed that Ser Daven had not yet heard it. Jaime would be glad to put the Riverlands behind him. 

“Have you any evidence the Blackfish has my wife?” Tyrion finally asked, sounding concerned.

“No, there are hardly any women in there. Westerling’s wife and daughter, I think, that’s it. I was wondering why you’d followed Jaime to the field, didn’t take you for a fighter, coz. Missing your bride, then?” He turned a serious look on Tyrion and leaned closer over the table. “She got a Lannister in her belly? Are we looking for a girl with child?” 

“If she did,” Tyrion lied smoothly, “she hasn’t any longer I would imagine.”

Daven nodded gravely, “well from what we’ve seen he hasn’t got her with him. Sorry, coz.” 

Tyrion only shrugged but Jaime saw the barest flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “Don’t cry for me, Daven, I saw enough women out there to make any man forget his wife,” Tyrion announced lustily, lifting his cup and draining it. Their cousin laughed and Jaime went on questioning him about the siege. Ser Daven spoke long into the evening of the men and camps before releasing them from his tent, Tyrion having cantered off earlier to find Shae and the others and leaving Brienne and Jaime to strategize. Jaime took her elbow and led her along as they left Ser Daven to his evening. Truth be told, he was more comfortable in a camp than he had ever been at court. They watched washer-women joust off the backs of two knights, half-drunk and half-naked. Brienne hardly balked at the sport and Jaime remembered she had spent time in Renly’s camp. As they continued to walk they were offered roast capon by a group of bowmen and a young squire inquired as to the best way to deflect a war hammer in battle. The men were more comfortable with Jaime than any little lordling was and, so long as she was at his side, they treated Brienne with respect. 

They met Addam at the cookfire closest to their tents and supped before retiring, Brienne following him to his tent as he had hoped she would. It was a good thing she had too, as her things had been moved there and he suspected that if she had gone to her own tent she would have found Bronn or Ser Addam with one of the camp followers Ser Daven had mentioned Ryman brought in to keep his bored soldiers entertained. “What do you make of it?” He asked her about the siege, curious at what she thought.

“I know why your Uncle wanted you to come. The men are in disarray, they do not respect Ser Daven as they should. Ser Ryman needs to take down his gibbet and kill Edmure or release him. Can you imagine being made to stand there all day with a noose around your neck?” Jaime felt a stab of sympathy for Edmure Tully. “How do you mean to end it?” She asked him, and he knew she was inquiring as to whether he would break his vow to Catelyn Stark and take up arms against house Tully.

“I mean to offer him generous terms.”

“Do you think he will take them? Terms require trust, he doesn’t trust you.”

“No, he doesn’t. I’ll meet him on the drawbridge tomorrow and we shall see if his sense or his resolve holds faster.” Brienne eyes widened and she stilled her hands that had been working on the fastening of her boots.

“The archers, Jaime,” she said, sounding concerned. She had good instincts and he smiled at the way her mouth twisted nervously at the thought of him being struck down by a hundred arrows.

“They won’t,” he said softly, cupping her chin before backing away and beginning to undress. She said nothing else.

Their conversation finished, he readied himself for bed, watching shamelessly as Brienne did the same with her back to him. Her moon blood was on her, explaining her strange gait days before, her insistence on bathing, and the way she seemed to shy away from him as she slept. Shae must have known, taking care to go with Brienne to the stream that morning they’d left for Pink Maiden. She washed between her legs with a wet cloth, heated by the brazier in their tent, oblivious to his eyes. It looked as though she were nearing the end, coming away with very little blood on the rag and the water in her basin only pinking slightly. He sunk himself onto their camp bed and left the coverlet open for her to join him, which she did with less reticence. _We two are beyond all that_ , he thought as he wrapped his arms around her and she settled against him. 

The next morning Brienne went out amongst the men with Addam whilst Jaime went to meet with the Blackfish. The last time he had been to Riverrun he had been younger than Peck, the page he left in King’s Landing. Sumner Crakehall had sent him with a message to Hoster Tully and Lord Hoster had sat him beside his daughter Lysa every evening at dinner. And while Lysa had been pretty in a timid sort of way, and Catelyn more intriguing still, no girl could be more exciting to him than Lord Hoster’s infamous brother. The Blackfish had been younger then Jaime was now at the time, and Jaime had been as green as summer grass. He had ignored poor Lysa and Catelyn and spent of his time pressing Brynden Tully for stories of the Ninepenny Kings. Now he was going to walk across a drawbridge and threaten the man’s life. Not for the first time Jaime wondered how he had gotten to this point. 

“Kingslayer,” he said as Jaime’s horse walked forward, his hooves clanking on the planks. Jaime promised himself he would hold his temper as he made his way, stopping before Brynden Tully. The Blackfish was all in black, with his courser outfitted in the red and blue of his house.

“Blackfish,” he answered firmly, meeting Tully’s eyes. 

“I must assume, Kingslayer, you’re come to return my niece’s daughters to me. You are welcome to bring them forward at any time.” Jaime glared. The Blackfish knew Jaime would not have the girls, yet he insisted on Jaime saying so, admitting to another broken oath.

“I’m afraid I do not have them at the moment, I rather thought you might know a thing about that.”

“They've gone missing?” He asked, a smile stretching across his weather worn face. “Good girls.”

“Only the one actually, Lady Sansa. You wouldn’t happen to have her stashed away in there with Jeyne Westerling would you?” Jaime did not want to give him the upper hand, and he knew Sansa was a good bargaining tool, but the Blackfish would know this too and perhaps take his terms more seriously for his honesty. 

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you, Kingslayer.” 

“Fair enough.” He nodded let Honor feel his spurs, prepared to get this business over with. “If you yield the castle, Edmure will go free. You are not the rightful Lord of this castle, you serve at your nephew’s pleasure,” he tried, knowing the Blackfish was valiant but also old. He had no children and no wife to live for. Edmure was the future of the Tully line and Ser Brynden knew it.

“And at whose pleasure do you serve, Ser Kingslayer? Your sister’s, I hear, though the Queen isn’t here. No, you are sharing a tent with Brienne of Tarth. Big girl like that, it’s a wonder you’ve kept her a secret this long.” The Blackfish grinned at Jaime, his blue eyes steely beneath his stiff grey eyebrows. 

“I am here to discuss Riverrun, not women, if it please you.” It was a good thing that Jaime had not approached armed or he would have ripped his sword from his scabbard and been slain by a hundred arrows raining down on him from the ramparts. 

“Nothing about you pleases me, Kingslayer, you always disappoint,” he growled, tightening his hands on the reins of his horse. 

“I will give you Edmure if you yield the castle and return to us, unharmed, the girl Jeyne Westerling and the Lady Sybelle. Your men will go, unarmed but free.” The Blackfish actually laughed, outright, directly at him. Jaime seethed but said nothing as he waited.

“And how long will my men last unarmed? Hmmm? And as for Jeyne, you may take Lady Sybelle but my King entrusted his Queen to me and I will not hand him over to the likes of you to be put into a Frey noose,” he spat. 

“She has been pardoned, you have my word no harm will come to her,” Jaime promised.

“ _Your word?_ Is that the same word you gave to my niece when you promised her daughters would be returned to her?” Ser Brynden’s horse whickered beneath him, agitated by his master’s anger.

“I am not here to speak of the dead but to talk of the living. Your men need not lose their lives. Yield the castle to us or hundreds will die.”

“Hundreds of mine, maybe. Thousands of yours. I told her she had made a mistake, when she told me she had put you into the care of Brienne of Tarth. Selwyn Tarth, Lord of Evenfall and a cousin to Joanna Lannister has only one daughter, Brienne of Tarth, _betrothed to Jaime Lannister_. She should have known, but how could she? You never did marry the girl, Kingslayer’s whore they call her now.” Brynden looked out over the encampment as if he might see Brienne there, waiting for Jaime to return. If that was the sort of girl he thought Brienne was he knew nothing at all about her but most certainly had someone from camp feeding him information.

“That is a highborn lady you are speaking of, you will call her by her name,” he gritted through his teeth. 

“Oh-ho, you may dishonor her nightly, Kingslayer, but I am not to call her what she is. You know, it’s a wonder you waited so long to bed her. If you’d been putting bastards in Brienne of Tarth’s belly then maybe you wouldn’t have been putting them in your dear sister. It would have saved us all a great deal of trouble. ”

Jaime was seething. “I give you my word,” he started, ignoring the Blackfish’s attempts to distract him from their negotiations, “no harm will come to your men in the event of your yielding this castle.”

“Your word of _honor_?” He asked, one of his bushy eyebrows raised in question. “Do you even know what honor is?”

_A horse_ , thought Jaime as Honor shifted beneath him. “I will swear any oath you require,” he said, knowing Ser Brynden Tully would require no oaths, but hoping there was a chance they could end this siege without bloodshed. 

“Spare me, Kingslayer. Bargaining with Oathbreakers is like building on quicksand.” Ser Brynden tightened the reins again and his courser began to turn away.

Desperate and furious Jaime called after him. “Are there no terms you will accept?!”

“From you? No.” The Blackfish began to trot back to the castle but slowed up when Jaime called out to him again.

“If you had no intention of taking terms, why did you meet with me?” He asked, honestly curious.

“Sieges are deadly dull. I wanted to see your whore and to hear what feeble excuses you might care to offer up for you and your family’s latest enormities. I was disappointed in both.” The Blackfish turned his horse back around and trotted back to Riverrun, the portcullis crashing down again once he was inside. 

_Well_ , he thought, _that did not go well_. He did not want to take up arms against Tully, he had made a vow to Lady Catelyn, one Brienne had witnessed, but Brynden Tully’s words burned in his mind. _Kingslayer. Kingslayer’s Whore._ He almost hoped to be able to slay the Blackfish himself when the time came. 

_I am going to have to storm the castle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for still reading this, I am so grateful for every reader that has stuck with me and for every new one who is just getting into this. Thank you, thank you, thank you! All feedback is greatly appreciated and always welcomed. Thanks again and I shall see you all soon!


	23. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A general and her counsel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this and hanging in there with me. I can't lie to you, there is a lot of dialogue in this chapter, you know I couldn't seem to get any one to shut up. So there wasn't too much room for plot development. I promise though, I am setting some things up plot-wise! PROMISE!
> 
> And last, but never, ever least, a great big "thanks" and "I love you" to my beta from across the pond, _Snowfright_. Without that gal I would be about as useful as Jaime's golden hand.

Jaime trotted Honor back to camp, keenly aware of the eyes trained on him; the Frey camp, his own Lannister men, and worst of all the dour Northerners with their fur mantles and dead, grey eyes. They had eyes like Ned Stark, tinged with judgment. Once he dismounted he strode towards his cousin’s tent, a plan already formulating in his mind. Ser Daven was sat with Brienne and Tyrion and their indomitable Aunt Genna. He had suspected her presence since Daven’s mention of Emmon Frey. Jaime smiled a greeting to all in attendance and patted Tyrion on the shoulder as he passed, coming to a stop before Genna and awaiting the inevitable hug and ear pinch that she was so fond of. Without fail she stood, her light blond hair falling back as she tilted her head back to look on him. He bent to embrace her and chuckled when she gave his ear a predictable little twist. 

“Aunt, it hasn’t been _nearly_ long enough,” he japed, smiling mischievously. 

She only rolled her green eyes in response, “that is what your ungracious brother said. I expected better from you both.” It was said with an impatient little huff, but he could tell from her smile that she wasn’t really angry.

“And how did it go with Ser Brynden the Blackfish?” All eyes were on him and Jaime could feel his smile turning brittle on his face.

“He didn’t take the terms,” he admitted. 

“I told you he wouldn’t,” Aunt Genna proclaimed matter-of-factly, re-situating her rather large mass of flesh on the smallish camp chair and pointing to Daven. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yes, you did,” he responded obediently with a grin. 

“I’m surprised the old man even deigned to talk with the infamous _Kingslayer_.” Jaime couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped into his voice but he smiled broadly to mask it. 

“Well the Frey’s are hardly trustworthy, he wasn’t going to speak with them. But, well, you _did_ kill a certain King you were meant to protect, sweetling. But that is no matter now, how are we going to take care of this?” She looked to each of them then, a war general and her counsel. 

“We can’t wait them out, he’s better provisioned than half my men and Ryman say’s he ain’t got enough coming down from the Twins to feed more than the bloody Frey’s.” Ser Daven leaned back in his chair and took a deep quaff of wine. 

“So we storm the castle?” Tyrion offered, as though he knew what that entailed and had not just read about it in his history books.

Jaime had a plan forming in his mind, a plan that would worsen his reputation and break the vow he’d made to Catelyn Stark. Either way he was breaking a vow, one way or another, but the vows he made to his King and to Tyrion and to Brienne were of more importance than a vow forced from his lips. He thought too that Lady Catelyn would prefer her daughter be delivered to safety over the life of her fool brother. Brienne looked grim seated across from him so gave her a smile that he hoped was reassuring, but her answering expression remained flat.

“I would like to avoid that if I possibly can, Riverrun is a strong seat with high walls. We could lose thousands in the attempt,” he parroted the Blackfish’s threat and it soured in his mouth. Still, it was the truth. “There might be another way.” Ser Daven, Brienne, and Tyrion all sat up at his pronouncement but his Aunt Genna merely leaned over to Brienne.

“Brienne, dove, would you be so kind as to go and rouse my husband? I’m afraid I need to speak with him and he would want to be here for this,” Genna's coy maneuvering went unnoticed by no one but Brienne, who stood and nodded seriously. She exited the tent with a purposeful stride.

“Tyrion, Daven, would you excuse us? I need to speak with Jaime.” All pretenses were abandoned when she asked, Aunt Genna being one of the more forthright members of their family. Tyrion grinned and stood, refilling his cup before he left. 

Daven nodded, patting Jaime on the back as he followed Tyrion out. “Good luck, coz,” he said ominously.

Jaime waited, carefully casual under his Aunt’s cool appraisal. “Tell me, Jaime, what do think you are accomplishing keeping that girl in your tent?”

“Funny, the Blackfish said something similar.” He crossed his arms, mirroring his Aunts posture and trying not to look self-satisfied without looking arrogant. It was an old game. Jaime played the unrepentant guilty child and Genna Lannister, the indulgent authoritarian. 

“Of course he would know by now. They’re calling her your whore,” she sighed. 

“They’re wrong.”

“You know just as well as I, it doesn’t matter that they’re wrong. This camp is full of my husband’s kin, and I’ve not met one who doesn’t envy us, who doesn’t hate us for what we are.”

“Better?” He asked. “Richer?”

“Respected. Your father earned that respect for us after my father lost it.” His Aunt poured herself another cup of wine and tilted her head. “He should have gone to Selwyn, after Galladon’s death. I told him to go. He should have pushed the betrothal, Selwyn would have relented, but Tywin was too proud. And when has he listened to anyone other than Kevin?” 

Jaime watched his Aunt twist her rouged mouth and he was compelled to ask her the same thing he had asked his Uncle in King’s Landing. “You love him, my father?”

“When my father arranged my marriage to Emm it was an insult. My father was a second son, and like second son’s he did much to please people. He took Emmon for my husband to please Walder Frey. The men sniggered behind my father’s back but Tywin spoke up for me, before everyone in that hall. He proclaimed it a bad match. He was no more than ten years old. How could I not love him?” She was smiling a sort of faraway smile that she didn’t wear often on her broad face.

“I am sure my father would be glad to hear it.”

“I’m sure he knows,” she replied quickly. “I’m sure he is also aware of your current arrangements. If you think you have been discrete in any way, you are wrong.”

He didn’t know what to say to her. It was obvious, even to him, that he had always made a fool of himself for love. Tyrion and Cersei did well to point it out to him on several occasions. Until Brienne he had never loved anyone but Cersei. He and his sweet sister had been insatiable and secretive, always rushed and furtive and never ever sated. He had to admit that his Aunt was right; it had been so freeing to do as he pleased when he pleased with Brienne. His fascination with Brienne was as encompassing as his fascination with Cersei had been, but so much less restricted. After the dark cell of his sister’s love, Brienne was the sun. He was drunk on her the way he had been drunk on the open sky after a year in Robb Stark’s dungeon. It had made him careless. 

“A lion does not care about the opinions of sheep,” he quoted his father carelessly, at a loss. 

“Tywin’s words do not suit you,” she scoffed catching him up. “I am writing to Lord Selwyn, Gods know that girl hasn’t. She has been too busy with you. I am going to do my best to assuage his concerns, as I am sure he has many, but do not be foolish Jaime. She is yours for the taking if you’ll have her, and the price will be that white cloak you love so well. Selwyn will know that, your father knows it, and she knows too.” Genna Lannister licked her teeth and crossed her legs, clasping her hands and resting them on her knees. 

“I have always known the price of love,” he said, no longer willing to lie to himself or his Aunt. She would see through him anyway. 

“Yes, you _would_.” Her voice was sharp, her displeased air hinting that perhaps she too suspected correctly a thing or two about him and Cersei. She had raised them, after all, if anyone were to notice the exclusively possessive nature of their relationship it would be her. He felt himself reddening and irritably stood up, brushing invisible dust from his breeches and walking past his Aunt’s chair.

“My place is beside the King.”

“There are many places in this world, nephew, and each one with its advantages and disadvantages.” Jaime set his hand lightly on the corner of her chair and felt as her dry, fleshy fingers covered his. 

“I have a duty, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“You do, you have sworn a vow. But you of all people should know that a man swears many vows, has many duties.” He could hear it in her tone, that she was leading him if he’d only follow.

“And so does a woman?” 

“Yes. A lady has a duty to her father, to her family, and to her _honor_. None of these are to be taken lightly. Brienne honors the sword and her word with the same fervor that I honor my duty to my children. Do not disappoint either of us, my love.”

“What would you have of me?” He asked without preamble. 

“Emm cannot hold Riverrun while a Tully survives to take it back, I would have a safe seat for Lyonel. He is not so weak hearted as Cleos was, nor so dim, but he is not yet man enough to hold that seat and Emm will never be,” she spoke softly, but with little remorse at the death of her first son. Jaime had come to learn that women like his Aunt and like Olenna Tyrell suffered no pity for those they saw as deserving of their fate, regardless of the blood between them. 

“You would have me kill Edmure Tully? I swore a vow not to take up arms against Stark or Tully, I swore to Lady Stark when she released me.”

“A vow sworn at sword point,” she countered, anticipating him like Arthur Dayne would have with a sword. “I would have you kill all of the Tully’s if you could. That girl has one growing in her that could yet claim that seat.”

“Roslin Frey may have a girl.”

“Yes, and I would wed that girl to Ty or my little Walder if Lord Walder would permit it, but she could just as easily give birth to a boy and his little cock would cloud matters.” She sighed, giving his hand a squeeze and looking up at him from her wide, pink face. “Would that your father had granted Darry to Emm and not Riverrun, Riverrun is a poisoned prize. The Darrys are all dead but for Cleos’ widow, she is Lady Mairya’s sister. That whore of a Frey is only Darry on her mother’s side, and your cousin Lancel does not belong there. I have heard from your Uncle that Lancel agrees with my assessment, and has abandoned his place in Darry to join the Faith Militant.” 

“The Faith Militant?”

“Yes. Your sister is a fool for reinstating them, she will pay dearly I promise you. The Swords and Stars troubled even the Targaryans. The Conqueror himself had tread lightly with the Faith, so they would not oppose him, but when Aegon died they were in the thick of the rebellions that followed. She should never have permitted the Faith to arm again, the throne does not have enough gold dragons to put a bounty on them should they grow out of hand.” 

There was a shuffling outside the tent as Brienne and Lord Emmon arrived, he could hear them speaking with Addam, who must have joined Brienne in her search. Addam remained outside when they entered, Brienne seeming twice Emmon’s height and his own wife seeming more than twice his width. He was red-nosed and hunched, as Jaime remembered him, and he was struck by how correct his father had been all those years before. Aunt Genna was too much woman for Emmon Frey by half. 

Emmon looked skittish, peering up at Jaime from bushy eyebrows, his nearly bald head covered in wisps of white. “There you are,” Aunt Genna crowed at her husband from her chair. He moved to sit beside her but she held a hand up. “Don’t sit. Wait for me without will you?”

Emmon turned pleadingly to Jaime at his wife’s dismissal. “This war,” he started shakily, “you’ll have seen the siege machines. Ser Daven means to knock my castle down. He has trebuchets, rams, and towers. It will not serve. He talks of burning pitch and melting my walls. I have a decree signed by King Tommen. I am the rightful Lord of Riverrun, I can’t rule a ruin.” He held up the paper and seemed to wave it in front of Jaime’s face as though it were a weapon. He was near tempted to rip the thing apart but his Aunt was too quick.

“Put that fool thing away and wait for me without,” she ordered. “We have _family_ matters to discuss.” Brienne was standing off to Jaime’s side, eyeing the proceedings quietly. Emmon swung his gaze to her and opened his mouth but Genna waved her hand in Brienne’s direction and sighed. “She is family Emm, Jaime’s second cousin on his mother’s side, once removed. Please keep up, dear.” He blinked at her owlishly. 

“Yes, yes, it is warm in here. I shall wait outside.” He stepped out as though in a daze, a dumb dog who had just been given a command by his master. It was hard for Jaime not to hate Emmon Frey, he had come to the Rock begging a lioness half his age and he never did get a hold of her. Sure, Aunt Genna gave him four sons, but no one knew for sure that they were his. Jaime felt confident Cleos was but the others were likely the gets of other, bolder knights. 

“Brienne dear,” she said, turning her penetrative gaze on Brienne. Jaime wanted to stand between them, deflect whatever his Aunt was going to throw at her. She only smiled at her though. “I noticed your tent was quite small and far off, isn’t it?”

Brienne tilted her head and couldn’t help the puzzled expression that clouded her features before she schooled her face. “I’m afraid, my Lady, that-”

“Oh, sweetling, you’ve not even set eyes on it, have you?” Brienne turned a furious, bright red. Her cheeks made the Lannister banners pale in comparison. “I am having one of our tents put up beside Jaime’s.” She stood and crossed the tent to meet Brienne. She was shorter by at least a head and a half, but Brienne was near to cowering at his Aunt’s approach. She grabbed up Brienne’s large hands in her own, smaller ones. “At least make of show of going in to your own tent, dear, I’m not asking you to stay there. And write to Selwyn,” she added as she released Brienne and heading out to her husband. 

Brienne didn’t stop blushing after his Aunt left and he was enjoying the way her eyes darted back and forth between him and the tent flap, as though she were a squirrel backed into a corner by a hungry fox. _Or a lion_ , he thought. As much as he enjoyed watching her nervously shift from one foot to the other, edgy and flushed with embarrassment, he had things that needed doing. 

“Come here, Brienne,” he ordered, walking over to the tent entrance and pushing the flap open. Brienne blinked at him, her eyes searching. He only raised an eyebrow and beckoned her with his hand. She went to him finally, crossing more feet with three strides than his Aunt could have covered in six. She stopped short, him raising an arm and placing it across her path to hem her in. “You are going to follow Addam and I and you are not going to say anything, do you understand? You have to trust me on this Brienne, do you trust me?” 

She turned to him, her cheeks still pinkish. “I trust you, Jaime,” she said firmly, fervently. 

He smiled. “Good.”

They exited together, Jaime waving Addam to follow them as he headed through camp. The Lannister forces were garbed in red and a ruckus bunch. They’re heads more often than not topped with shaggy gold or coppery hair, armed to the teeth and comfortably milling about. The Frey camp was somewhat different. Jaime walked down from the Lannister high ground into the bleak disarray that was the camp of Ryman Frey. The tents were cluttered together as if they had rained from the sky. The men too were a motley bunch. They were dark haired and dull eyed, dressed in dark cloaks and water-stained leathers. And everywhere were the twin towers of House Frey, grey on blue, emblazoned on shields and surcoats, banners and horse blankets. The men were just as loud as the Lannister forces but grew strangely quiet as Jaime, Brienne and Addam passed them. 

Between all the cookfires and tents were brown mud and horse dung, kicked up into peaks by hooves and thick boots alike. He made his way through the miasma of filth and humanity and stink that pervaded any encampment, though was stronger amongst the Freys, until he saw the gallows rise up out of the dust. On it was Edmure Tully. He looked as dour as Jaime remembered Catelyn looking, but significantly more haggard. He had dirt on his face and his clothes were rotting off his body, reminding Jaime of his own imprisonment. He would have been lying if he’d said he didn’t feel vindicated, but the Red Wedding was atrocity enough to make him feel slightly guilty at the emotion. Brienne gave a little gasp when they reached the steps that led up to Catelyn Stark’s younger brother, the heir to Riverrun. 

“Jaime-” Brienne started but he put a finger to his lips. _Trust me_ , he mouthed behind his finger, meeting her eyes before turning to the sentry. 

“You cannot go up there without Ser Ryman’s leave, my Lord,” said the guard at the base of the steps. 

He eyed the man up and down. He was a boy really, no more than four and ten, with a weak chin and soft brown hair, in a blue-grey cloak. “This,” he said, resting his hand on his sword hilt, “says I can. The question is - will I be walking over a corpse to do it?” The sentry stepped aside swiftly. Edmure didn’t so much as flinch as they ascended the steps, hardly noticing their arrival until Jaime spoke. “Ser Addam, take his head,” he ordered harshly. Addam did not hesitate. He stepped forward, passing Jaime and a stunned Brienne, to reach Edmure. Addam roughly removed the noose from Edmure Tully’s neck and kicked the back of his knees, causing him to buckle forward. Brienne said not a word but he felt her grip his sleeve roughly. He silently begged her to be quiet, making sure to put on a show as he moved to where Addam had Edmure Tully bent over himself. 

“Kingslayer,” he started, through dry, cracked lips, before beginning to cry. He was begging, a jumble of pitiful appeals and adjurations falling from his lips like pebbles rushing down a mountain before a landslide. 

“Be quick about, we haven’t got all afternoon.”

As if on cue a voice cut through the din of chatter around the scaffold and Jaime exhaled a deep breath. “No! Stop, no!” A young man was calling out, jogging ahead of the stomping Ser Ryman. Jaime held up his hand to halt Addam. He was a thickset man, fleshy, with two wobbling chins hanging from his neck. His whole body seemed to shiver as he drunkenly stumbled up the steps to meet Jaime. 

“I warned the Blackfish!” He blustered. “I told him Edmure would die unless the castle yielded. I had this gibbet built to show him that Ryman Frey doesn’t make idle threats. At Seagard my son Walder did the same and Patrek Mallister bent the knee, but…the Blackfish is a cold man. He refused, so-”

“…you hanged Edmure Tully?” Jaime made a show of looking over at the very much alive Tully heir. “Only a fool makes threats he does not intend to carry out.” Ryman Frey reddened but he was silent under Jaime’s assessing glare. “Better a sword than a noose. Ser Addam.” He gestured with his raised left hand for Addam to continue.

Addam lifted the sword and Edmure began begging anew. Brienne’s grip, which never left his sleeve, tightened. “If we hang the man we have no hostage,” Ser Ryman cried. “Have you considered that, Kingslayer?”

Jaime hit him. Hard. The blow was delivered backhanded but the force of it was enough to knock Ryman back down the steps.

“You have a fat head, Ser Ryman, and a thick neck as well. How many strokes do you think it would take Ser Addam to cut it off?” Ser Ryman stuttered but managed no words. Jaime turned to Addam, who was grinning, and asked the same question. 

Addam tilted his head but held up one finger. “In one!” 

“He boasts! At least three,” he jested. Ser Addam laughed, looking relieved at Jaime’s joviality. He was glad that Addam seemed to be catching on. His friend had blanched at the first order to take Edmure’s head but was gradually regaining color in his cheeks. “Go away.”

“What?” Lord Ryman asked from the ground, a slattern with bare feet and fat, round tits spilling out of her unlaced bodice attempting to help him to his feet. 

“I said,” Jaime whispered, as he stalked down the steps, “go away. I am tired of you. Leave.” Ser Ryman finally managed to gain his feet but only took one step forward before Jaime was bearing down on him again. “Now!” Ser Ryman blustered and blushed but turned and left all the same, the slattern that helped him up trailing in his wake. “Ser Addam, take Edmure Tully to my tent. Get him some water, food, and a fresh bath. See to it he has clothes.” Jaime began to walk away, Brienne standing stunned at the base of the scaffold and Addam quickly gathering up the heir to Riverrun and dragging him forward. “And make sure their not Lannister colors, will you?”

“You knew they wouldn’t let you kill him.” Brienne had caught up with him, no strange feat considering her legs were the longest he’d ever seen on a woman. 

“I had hoped they wouldn’t.”

“Would you have done it? If they hadn’t stopped you, would you have killed him?” Jaime looked at her, her earnest question gnawing at him. He knew the answer but he didn’t know that he wanted her to. His Aunt’s words still haunted the corners of his mind; _she is yours for the taking_. 

“Better a sword than a noose.”

She bit her lip but nodded. He could see the cogs turning in her mind, the conflict plain on her face. She didn’t want him to kill Edmure Tully, but she saw the honor in a death by the sword opposed to swinging at the end of a rope. Any true soldier would choose the sword, she would choose the sword. She was assuming Edmure Tully would be man enough to do the same. _That error can be forgiven_ , he thought, _she does not know him_. 

“Where are we going,” she asked. They were finally reaching the high ground and leaving the stink of the Frey’s behind them, her fingers no longer clutching his sleeve like the girl he’d known. He turned his head and was happy to see that she had stayed close. 

“To inspect your new tent, my Lady. My Aunt is very generous with those whom she considers family, I am curious to see how well she likes you.” He sucked his bottom lip under his teeth, watching Brienne . 

“She does not consider me family,” Brienne muttered, her eyes looking at the men around them and not at all pausing to look in his direction.

When they came upon the tent, a large thing in bright blue silk with gold trim, her mouth dropped open. If he had poured honey onto her tongue she would have been still enough to catch flies. “I’d say she likes you a great deal,” he said, placing his hand at the small of her back and pressing her onward. “A very, great deal.”

When they reached the top of the hill he opened the flap to her tent and ushered her in. His Aunt’s attempt at discretion made a mockery of his own. The tents were pressed so tightly against each other that the wall of blue silk facing his tent looked purple. There were braziers in every corner, a large camp bed covered in blue and silver pillows and a bowl of fragrant flowers at the entryway. On the ground were thick brown and grey rugs from edge-to-edge, so thick Jaime was sure if he took his boots off he wouldn’t feel so much as a pebble beneath his feet. There was also a sizable table with a few chairs, his Aunt always wanting to be prepared for guests, not that he thought Brienne would have many, though he suspected that his Aunt rather intended to visit Brienne as often as she could manage it. 

“This is too much.” She was standing in the center of the pavilion, for that is what it was, with a hand on the hilt of her sword and the other resting at her forehead. “I can’t stay here.”

“Genna is right. Your name has been dirtied enough by your association with me. We are only doing it more harm.” The words were bitter ash in his mouth, they were the truth.

“Why should I care what they call me? I have never cared what they called me,” she rounded on him, defiant. The fire in her features was bright, a hint of the lioness she might have been…might still be. 

“I care. Do you think I want you spoken about as they speak about me? Do you think I _enjoy_ being the _Kingslayer_?”

She was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading. Your encouragement, critcism, comments and everything in between is all valued and appreciated. You guys are truly the best a girl could hope for in a fandom!


	24. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The taking of Riverrun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I owe all that I am to my beta, _Snowfright_. Let us all thank her. Lol. And thank you for reading! I love this fandom and I love being a part of it!

Jaime had lunch brought for them, happily delivered by Pod who looked relieved to be out of Tyrion and Bronn’s company. Jaime had Pod invite both men and Shae to Brienne’s tent, the trio declined. Tyrion said he was too drunk to discuss war and Bronn was too sober. He had been hoping to offset some of the tension that seemed to seep out of Brienne like blood from a wound that he could not staunch. They ate in near silence, he had never longed for the boisterous company of his family quite so fervently before. Their silence was so complete and thick, clogged with stifled intention, that when she did speak it was startling. “You never…” She was looking at him from across the little table, their empty plates and bowls cluttering the miles between them, and he fought the urge to leave her there. She wasn’t biting her lip, or blushing, or fluttering her hands the way she did whenever she was nervous, she was just staring at him, reading him. “I am _sorry_ , Jaime.” Her eyes were so earnest and clear, so very obviously honest. 

“Don’t be sorry for me, my Lady,” he gritted, “I assure you I don’t deserve it.” 

“I know your crimes, and I know why you committed them. You are not the man they say you are. I know your honor. The things you have done for me, the things you have _always_ done for me, show it plain. I…” She stuttered then, but soldiered on, ignoring her body’s response. “I know how ludicrous that name is, what they call me. I know how unlikely.” She smiled at him, a sad smile that only highlighted the pain in her face. 

He marveled at how she could be so blind. _Stupid, stubborn, blind wench_. Her eyes said everything that her mouth couldn’t seem to manage, every cruel taunt or jape that had been tossed at her writ beneath her lashes. He was compelled to grab both her wide shoulders and shake. It was as if they, those people on Tarth that she would name her family, had put her under a spell. It was as though the folk on that fell island of hers had spent all of their time convincing Brienne of how _unworthy_ she was. They had done a good job. No matter how he dogged her steps or how he raged against himself to keep his hands from her thick hips or his lips from hers, she couldn’t seem to grasp his affection. It was as though her big, blue eyes, which saw every other dark corner of him, passed over his heart like a breeze sliding over still water and missing its depths. She had spent so much time avoiding him and denying him, he assumed it had been clear to her how he felt. He’d thought she had been acting purposefully, staying away for both their sakes. He’d never thought that she might not know how shamefully he obsessed, how pathetic he was. 

_Has she already forgotten the feel of my mouth on hers_ , he thought furiously, _my fingers on her freckled cheek? Have I spent my kisses on someone else, touched and begged some other ugly girl?_

He crossed the tent more quickly than he’d intended, startling the towering woman as though she were some fawn capable of being taken against her will, he wanted to kiss her. She braced herself, hands up, but her fingers only met air. Jaime halted his steps, leaving only a foot of space between them. “I cannot decide which of us the Gods favor more ill, me for wanting you as badly as they say or you, for capturing the affection of someone so completely reviled.” 

She let out a strangled noise, a gasp of shock. His right hand immediately went out to steady her, his right cupping her neck and sinking into her short hair, his left gripping her arm to hold her still. There was this amazing quiet between them, his heart stopped. It was as if everything was still and nothing would ever happen again, everything would just stop.

Then he kissed her.

When his lips touched hers Brienne stiffened against him. He pressed and pressed, her lips unmoving beneath his for a beat, and then two, before she seemed to blossom beneath him like a flower opening for the sun. His teeth ricocheted off hers when she opened her mouth, desperate to taste her. She gulped a breath from his mouth and he stroked inside her, pulling at her full bottom lip with his teeth. Satisfaction, true satisfaction, had been only a memory to him, a relic from some distant past he couldn’t really remember, but he thought he tasted it on her tongue then. Her fingers crawled up to grasp at his neck as he moved against her, blunted fingernails catching in the neck of his tunic and tearing it. The rush of having her was overwhelming and consuming. He broke from her lips and nipped at her neck, licking up to her ear and pressing his nose tight against her skin and breathing her in. “Gods,” he sighed, dragging his lips over her freckles and willing away the heat that flooded from every inch of his body to his groin. Jaime stepped away from her and failingly fought the smile that broke over his face. “It is not unlikely, Brienne, that I could want you for myself. I am not a man who falls on every woman for want of a warm bed. It is wrong, unchivelrous…and very, very likely.” He tightened his fist in her hair and tugged her close to him again, bringing her forehead down to rest against his. “But you are a highborn Lady, what they call you _is_ ludicrous. They should call you by your name and _nothing_ else.” 

Her lips were kiss swollen and her bright eyes were wide and still startled, though her pupils were large and black. She hadn’t removed her hands from his shoulders, gripping his armor plating reflexively as she filled her lungs. “No.” She stepped away and he knew he looked crestfallen by the way she immediately retreated back to his space, her instinct to comfort him. “Jaime, you swore a vow,” she muttered, sounding miserably torn to him.

“I broke it, a long time ago.” He ran a thumb over her reddened, freckled cheek, his thumb fluttering against her lashes as she let her eyes slip closed. “Look at me,” he commanded, “I made a vow to you first, do you remember?” The question was writ on her face, of course she couldn’t remember. He had been older. He still knows the words as though he’d only spoken them last night. “I made you a promise, never to leave you alone. I broke it once but I won’t break it again. I swear it on my honor, such as it is.”

“My Lord.” Addam coughed, eyeing the gold edging on the tent flap he was holding open. 

“Addam?” Jaime questioned his friend, irritation at the intrusion barbing his voice.

The soldier standing in Brienne’s entryway stepped in fully, releasing the silk work he had been examining. The blue of the silk cast on odd sheen to Ser Addam’s hair, making it look muddy. “Edmure Tully is in your pavilion bathing. Ser Orly is with him.”

Jaime nodded. “We will finish this later,” he said firmly, Addam smirking at them all the while. Thankfully the other knight didn’t comment on Jaime’s tussled appearance or Brienne’s deeper than usual blush. He had to admit that, looking objectively, he had left her looking slightly ravished. He followed Addam out and in to his own tent, dismissing Ser Orly when he entered. 

“Ser Addam, see that Pod gets dinner and wine for our guest. And a singer,” he added calmly, but his nerves were frayed from his encounter with Brienne. He focused on the Tully in his tub, dirty faced and looking like salvation.

“Why?” Lord Edmure asked once Ser Addam had left them.

“Consider it a wedding gift, my Lord.” Jaime strode to the side table and poured himself a glass of wine.

“A…wedding gift?”

“Yes, my father sends his regards on your nuptials. Your wife is pretty I’m told. That is…fortunate.” Edmure wiped his face with a clean hand, smudging the dirt covering his skin, and licked cracking his lips. “She’d have to be for you to bed her while your family was being slaughtered.”

“She didn’t want to,” he choked out. “She wept.” Jaime laughed humorlessly. His sister had not wept the first time he took her. He wagered too that Brienne would not have cried. Both of them possessed more strength than Roslin Frey could hope to have. “I thought-”

“You thought it was the sight of your rampant manhood that drove her to tears? Yes, that would make any woman weep.” 

Edmure Tully looked ashamed. “She is carrying my child,” he whispered. Another plea, one Jaime had been hoping for. _Not just a child_ , he thought, _that’s your death and my deliverance she’s got growing in her belly_. 

“Yes, I am rather counting on that.” He smiled genially, sitting himself in a chair and looking very sharply at the young man. Edmure was of an age with Jaime, perhaps a few years younger, but he looked forlorn and childlike. “I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here, but Riverrun has to bend the knee. Tomorrow my men are going to escort you to the gates and what happens after that is up to you.”

Edmure looked miserable and cradled his head in his hands, sliding deeper into the small tub with his knobby knees poking out of the cooling water. He fit in the tub somewhat better than Brienne, who oft had to hang her legs out to wash. “The Blackfish will never surrender,” he muttered.

“No, he won’t, but you will, won’t you?” 

“What do you mean?” Edmure looked up and Jaime thought he saw tears in the man eyes, making them glint.

“Your uncle is an old man, a hard man. You’re right. He’ll never surrender the Riverrun. He had no reason to, nothing to live for, nothing to preserve. A good death is all he can hope for, the best part of his life is done. But you, you have a wife and child, you have years left.” Jaime leaned forward in his chair conspiratorially, resting his elbows on his knees and fixing his gaze on Edmure’s dour face. “You are the rightful Lord of Riverrun, yield the castle and no one dies. Your smallfolk may go in peace or stay to serve Lord Emmon, whichever they desire. Ser Brynden may go to the Wall with whoever of his garrison chooses to do so, and you as well, if that is what you wish. Or you might go to Casterly Rock and enjoy all the comforts and courtesies which befit a hostage of your rank. I am, perhaps, to be Lord there quite soon, if my father gets his way. I’ll send your wife to join you, if you like. If her child is a boy he will be made to a page and squire for house Lannister. When he earns a knighthood we shall grant him lands. If she has a girl than I shall see her well dowered when she is old enough to wed. When the war is done you may even be granted parole. For all this though, you must yield the castle.” 

Edmure frowned at him, looking angry. Edmure pushed himself up, making to stand in the water, but Jaime’s hand on his sword hilt stalled the heir to Riverrun’s movement. “And if I refuse?” 

Jaime didn’t want to say the words. He knew Brienne was listening, and Addam too on the other side of the tent flap. There was nothing for it. _Let them hear_ , he thought, forcing a grim smile onto he face. “You’ve seen our numbers, the ladders and towers and rams. If I say the word my coz will bridge your moat and break your gates. Hundreds will die, many of those men yours. I will send in the Northman who came to us after the wedding, so that you will start your day by killing the fathers and brothers of the men who died for you at the Twins. After that the Freys, of which you would do me a great favor in slaying as I have no lack of them, and finally my own men to make the killing blow. Riverrun will burn. The westerman will come to the battle fresh when your men are short of arrows and can hardly heft their blades. We will put all your men to the sword, butcher your herds, pull down your walls and divert the Tumblestone over your ruins. When I am finished no one will be able to tell a castle stood here.” 

He stood over Edmure, eyeing him and making the man appear small in Jaime’s copper basin. “Your wife may whelp before then,” Jaime said, dipping his head down and letting Edmure see his teeth. “I expect you’ll want your child. I shall send him to you when he’s born-with a trebuchet.”

In the space after his speech Jaime could feel his gut twist, knowing that Brienne was recoiling as she listened. She would be horrified, they all would be. Except perhaps for his father a world away in King’s Landing. 

“I could kill you where you stand Lannister,” said Lord Edmure, finally finding his voice after the threat on his family. 

Jaime merely regarded him coolly. “You could try.” 

He waited but Edmure did not rise, instead the younger man deflated. Addam chose that moment to enter, Pod and a pale-faced singer in his wake. Pod set the tray of food carefully down, not meeting Jaime’s eye and moving with a too deliberate pace. Addam directed Podrick out, after the boy had hollowed the bread to fashion a trencher and piled it with meat and vegetables, nodding to Jaime as he too left. The poor, abandoned singer stood at the ready, his fiddle gripped tightly in his hands. “Singer, play for our guest whilst he eats. You know the song, I trust.” 

Jaime left Edmure then, ordering Ser Orly to remain inside as the first strains of “The Rains of Castamere” began to drift out into the night. He walked away from his tent, leaving Ser Addam and Pod staring after him. He wanted to go to Brienne, though he knew he would find no comfort there. Tyrion and Bronn were with Shae somewhere, debauching his cousin’s men no doubt. He would have liked to speak with Tyrion. _A trebuchet?_ He didn’t know where the words had come from and in his black humor they amused him, he thought perhaps his brother might be the only one who would understand the jape. He wandered for a long time, weaving in and out, listening to his men. They japed and laughed, played at war and waited. In a siege, you do a lot of waiting. It was clear the men were used to it. They horsed around and drank late into the night, loud and raucous. He almost joined them but his feet led him away from camp and back to the high hill and his tent.

The tub was gone, and the food, but the stink of Edmure Tully and Jaime’s own guilt hung in the air. He waited for her. He waited, and he waited, and she did not come. The sun went down and the moon came up, still she did not come. He removed his armor, bathed, and managed to eat supper before the silence drove him up and out of his own tent. He hastily buttoned one or two of the buttons on his tunic and laced his breeches, hardly getting them tied before he was outside. He racked his fingers through his hair irritably to tame it. He would have to have Brienne cut it for him soon, though to do that she would have to be speaking to him. 

“Brienne,” he called from outside, attempting to enter and finding the flap tied shut. “Brienne,” he tried again. There was no response from inside, but he could hear her moving. The shift of her weight on her camp bed, the rustle of silk against linen, all sounded as loud to him as a lion’s roar. “Let me in, Brienne.” She sounded close enough to be standing beside the entry way, still she said nothing. He growled at the tied silk in his way, thinking he could tear the flimsy barrier open easily if he wanted to. There were men not far off, far enough that they could not hear him but certainly close enough to see if he tore open her tent flap and charged in like some kind of rabid bear. Angrily he stomped back into his tent, pulling the blade his father gave him from its sheath beside his bed. He would finally put the damned thing to good use. The red and black blade shimmered in the light of his brazier. Jaime took a moment to admire the Valyrian steel before plunging it into the silk wall that separated his tent from hers. The sound of the rending fabric was deafening. 

Brienne did not scream, did not cry out, she merely blinked at him in the dim light. She had only one of her four braziers lit, and judging by the dim all that was left were embers. Brienne was clearly visible, dressed for bed in a linen shift, her furs pulled up and her hair mussed and still damp. She sat up hastily at his intrusion, exposing a pale shoulder where her shift had slipped down. It extended down to a strong pale arm and, finally, a pale hand wrapped round the hilt of the sword that hung on the bedpost. He ripped the fabric further and stepped casually through the gaping hole he’d made. “Good evening, Brienne.” He set his blade down, leaning it against the large table they had their lunch on. She stared at him, shocked, her mouth forming words but no sound came out.

“Are we bedding down early this evening?” He asked, fingering the buttons on his shirt until the ones he’s only so recently done up were undone. She watched him as he kicked off his boots and shrugged the tunic off his shoulders, letting it fall to the plush rug beneath his feet. 

She sat up further, removing her hand from the hilt of her sword when she did so. “A trebuchet, Jaime?”

He groaned, rubbing his face in exasperation. “He will surrender the castle.”

She smiled sadly, her shoulders slumping. “Only a fool makes threats he doesn’t intend to keep,” she sighed. Brienne bit her lip, looking nervous and sad. He knew what she craved, she wanted him to tell her he wouldn’t hurt Edmure Tully’s child. She wanted him to tell her he wasn’t a monster, the man everyone said he was. He couldn’t blame her. She spent her days trying to hold on to an honor that slipped from her grasp when the sun set and she sank into the arms of a man renowned for his bad turns. 

“I _would_ keep it, but I won’t have to.”

She looked stung, and he noticed she had twisted her hands together, wringing them for want of a sword to cut him with. “An infant? You would slaughter a child?”

“What is a trebuchet to a tower window?” He asked, knowing that he was destroying whatever he had started between them. It was strangely gratifying to watch her face crumble, he had never deserved her. It was freeing to be laid bare, finally seen for what he was and not through the eyes of the little girl who had so looked up to him. 

“You wouldn’t,” she asserted, “you won’t.” 

“I won’t, Brienne. But I would, to end this I would. It seems Lord Edmure knows the measure of me better than you, Brienne. I am a dishonorable man and you can always trust a dishonorable man to be dishonorable.” She gritted her teeth, her nose twisting as she clamped down. For a second he thought she might cry, but she didn’t. Crying was for lesser women and men, weaker. “If you have failed to notice, wench, we are at war. The longer we are detained in the Riverlands the less likely we are to find Sansa Stark before my sister does. Cersei _will_ kill the girl.”

“Please leave.” It was Harrenhal all over again, he realized. This time he did not fight her, could not beg. He left her tent, the smell of juniper and sweet summer flowers leeching in through the tear he’d rent between them. He got into bed and stared at the torn silk and into the faint glow of the tent beyond. Her bed was directly opposite the doorway he had created and he watched her as he lay, her back turned to him. He spied his sword, abandoned in his irritation and still leaning on the table, its golden lion head pommel glinting in the dark and its ruby red eyes glowing. It started to rain.

The next morning Edmure took control of Riverrun and, grudgingly, surrendered it to Jaime Lannister. Ser Daven’s men filled the castle, covering it like ants on a honey pot, dragging men out and stripping them of the armor and weapons. There were tussles but they were quelled quickly, with little bloodshed. When Jaime returned from Lord Edmure’s surrender Brienne was breaking her fast with Podrick, Tyrion and Shae. Bronn was still abed, most like, and both Ser Addam and his aunt were members of the host sweeping Riverrun. They would all convene in Ser Daven’s pavilion at midday to discuss their next course of action, though Jaime intended for his party to depart at sunrise the next morning. He entered his own tent, marching straight to his wash basin from the morning and sinking a cloth in to wash his face with. He was furious and his head was pounding. The Blackfish, it seemed, had escaped in the wasted time it took Edmure Tully to yield. He had slipped out into the water, a black fish in a black river. Jaime had toyed with sending Ser Addam and his men after him, they were the most like to catch the elusive knight, but he did not want to part with them. They would be needed when their party made for the Vale.

He left Ser Daven to work out the particulars of Edmure Tully’s transport, not wanting to speak with the man for fear of cracking him across the mouth for orchestrating the escape of his uncle. Ser Daven would also assure that Westerlings were taken care of. Ser Emmon and Jaime’s Aunt Genna were already talking with the household knights and the men and women of the castle, they would be pardoned. All he wanted was peace and quiet after his morning. 

“Did you have fun storming the castle?” Tyrion had poked his head through the tear in Jaime’s tent. He was smirking, turning his face from left to right in a farce of examining Jaime’s handiwork. “How nice of Aunt Genna to have this door put in for you and Brienne.” When Jaime said nothing Tyrion stepped through carefully and let the smirk fall from his face. “You’ll have to mend it, you know.”

“I can’t sew half so well as I’m sure some of Ser Daven’s men, I’ll leave it to him to mend.” He mopped his brow, looking over Tyrion’s shoulder to watch as Shae and Brienne rose and left, Podrick trailing behind them. 

“I am not speaking of the tent.”

“Then I am afraid I don’t take you meaning, brother.” Jaime scowled at his little brother, daring Tyrion to speak. He should have known not to tempt his brother. The youngest Lannister sibling never lacked in wit, and was always the sharper of the three.

“Your cloak makes a thin shield, brother, and feigned ignorance a thinner one.” Tyrion stated matter-of-factly. “Brienne has, as a matter of course, told Shae and me exactly what happened. Podrick pretended he did not hear but I fear the boy is quite upset at your behavior.”

“What did she say?” 

“Brienne was suitably vague and, though Shae and I managed to work out the particulars that she would not share, Pod is very concerned for his lady’s well-being. I am quite certain he would rather he were her squire then mine, I think he fancies she needs protection from you. He is not aware of how correct he is.” Tyrion waddled across the room and clambered onto one of Jaime’s chairs, using the table for leverage. 

“What would you have me say, Tyrion? I cannot have her while I wear the white. I cannot command without the respect of my men. I cannot gain respect by making threats that I will not carry out and I cannot take a castle without some kind of force.”

“A trebuchet?” Tyrion raised his brow and clicked his tongue.

“Oh, I thought you might like that.” Jaime grinned but he knew his face must look terribly twisted. 

“I do, and I am sure father would as well,” Tyrion laughed. “Pour me a glass, will you?”

Jaime did so and sat across from Tyrion. “It worked.” 

Tyrion linked his short fingers and tilted his head, appraising. “It did, and Brienne…”

“Understands well enough, brother.”

“Does she? I think she is-”

“A stupid, stubborn, girl,” Jaime huffed, undeterred at Tyrion’s creased brow.

“-quite concerned for you.” He narrowed his eyes but he brother said nothing else, waiting patiently for Jaime’s response.

“She has no need to be,” he finally conceded, leaning back in his chair and taking a deep drink. “Pigheaded wench,” he muttered. 

“Tell her the truth. You wouldn’t have slain the child. We both know you wouldn’t and she did too until you convinced her otherwise. Why are you so intent on making her hate herself for remaining loyal to you? She was a sister to you once, almost a lover. You would have her hate you?”

“She was a girl then,” he protested. _She didn’t know what I would become_.

“She is a woman now, and she is still loyal to you. Other women might want favor, might want your money or your cock or your name. Lady Brienne would be happy just to die for you. I think it’s monstrously unfair of you to leave it at that.” Tyrion shook his head, pushing back his dirty blond hair and better exposing the scar he received during the Battle of the Blackwater. He wondered what Brienne thought of him, what she would do if he begged forgiveness. _How much do we men ever know?_

“I will mend things, do not worry little brother. Though you are making me wish I had brought along Ser Ilyn, I doubt he would cause me so much trouble.” The brothers laughed. 

“Well you could cut out my tongue to keep me from wagging it. While you’re at it you could take Aunt Genna’s and Shae’s, it would save me a great deal of trouble. And Bronn’s while we’re silencing people. Podrick can keep his, the boy nearly never opens his mouth but to breath anyway, and Brienne as well.”

“Oh yes, she can keep hers, I would miss it too much when we kissed.” 

Tyrion laughed again but Jaime cast his gaze to the tear in his tent wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every comment, kudo, concern and critisism in cherished. Thank you so much for coming along with me on this ridiculous ride and I shall see you with Chapter 24 after the new year!


	25. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to _Snowfright_ for being the bext damn beta a gal could ask for. Thank you to all the lovely readers who have bothered to keep up with this story and who comment and kudo even though I could never thank you enough and I am rubbish at replying. And Thank you to the folks on twitter who keep me motivated and who are the greatest fandom peeps I could have hoped for!!
> 
> Onward we march!

They’d endured a rather fond farewell from camp, not exactly a custom during a siege. His Aunt Genna rode out with them to the top of the great hill behind the large encampment, and with her was Ser Daven. They had made sure to weigh down Tyrion’s horse with the majority of the supplies they took from camp, since his mount had the lightest rider, and Shae’s mare carried much of the rest. Addam and his men rode out in the predawn light before the rest of the party, their horses were unadorned, lighter and swifter, to scout. At first light Aunt Genna kissed him goodbye, whispering a wish of good fortune in his ear as she pinched it between her plump fingers. She kissed Brienne as well, saying something to the girl that had Brienne blushing a furious shade of pink. Tyrion and Shae both received Aunt Genna’s affections too, though Jaime did note a cooler tone to his Aunt’s farewell to Tyrion’s lover. He suspected it had something to do with their quest to fetch his little brother’s wife. Genna was robust and opinionated, and though she cared little for politics, there were some things she did not abide. He thought his grandfather’s penchant for mistresses had, perhaps, not only tainted their father’s view of such practices, but also their Aunt’s.

Brienne was cold, not looking at him, and when she did, not _seeing_ him. His brother had told him to mend the rift he had created, and he would, he just wasn’t sure how he was going to do so. She wouldn't listen to him to hear his apologies, or he felt confident she wouldn’t were he to attempt any. He did not intend to excuse his behavior. He was a commander, and thus had very few roads in terms of negotiations. He had said what needed to be said in order to get Edmure to relinquish Riverrun, perhaps if Jaime had been firmer that sorry excuse for a Lord might not have let his Uncle slip away. As it was the Blackfish was still at large and bound to wreak havoc in Jaime’s absence. 

Tyrion was smirking at him behind Brienne’s back at every chance the little bastard could, his shrewd eyes taking in Jaime’s increasingly bedraggled appearance. Sleeping alone was difficult, but sharing a tent with Bronn was nearly killing him. He very regularly thought of forcing the issue, actually drawing Brienne into an argument. Or perhaps, he imagined, he might be able to sneak into her tent in the dead of the night and drag Podrick out by the neck the lad’s jerkin. Then he would just crawl in and reclaim his rightful place, curved around her back. He wasn’t sure when she’d cornered the boy, or whether he had offered, but it was obvious the first evening they made camp that their previous arrangements were not going to suffice. Bronn had made it clear that he would sleep on the left and was a light sleeper. And he mentioned too that if Jaime valued his hands he had better keep them to himself. Jaime had been flummoxed by the assertion of Tyrion’s sellsword until he saw Podrick and Brienne preparing their new shared space. He had almost stomped across the small space they had cleared and confronted her then, but he was tired and cold and didn’t know what he would say.

They had been travelling almost a fortnight and still she was obstinate, pig-headed. She avoided his eye at meal times and she spoke little and less to him on any topic. He had more lively conversations with Podrick, and the boy was near as mute as his cousin Ser Ilyn Payne. Tyrion was delighted by the whole situation, having somehow managed to weasel out of having to share bedding with anyone but Shae. Jaime would have thought Shae to be Brienne’s first choice when picking a new bedmate, but apparently the wench knew better. Shae had always been on Jaime’s side, gleefully pushing them together and attempting to coax him into soiling his cloak further and tarnishing her honor. He had suspected she did so for entertainment and Tyrion’s benefit. However now that Brienne was not speaking to him, Shae had not moved on to some other folly. Instead she glared at him and ignored his japes. She remarked flatly on his shortcomings and very often contradicted him, regardless made of the subject. She was fiery, Tyrion’s consort, and apparently very much furious with him for his and Brienne’s apparent falling out. He couldn’t imagine why except to assume the small bond he had seen developing between the two was stronger than he had realized or her protective instincts were not limited to Sansa but had now extended to include Brienne. Shae looked young, Brienne's age give or take a year or two, but her eyes were dark and sad, older than her face.

“You can make a castle kneel in days, mere hours, brother, but you cannot make a woman say more than three words to you? I am not sure of your strategy but I am beginning to doubt your military training.” Tyrion was sat on his left, leaning back and looking at the sun in the trees. The curling leaves above them were rich and red, dappled with gold. The further Northwest they went, the cooler it grew and the more like winter it felt. 

“I got Edmure Tully to bend the knee, no large feat. Brienne is a more formidable foe with or without a blade. Our Lord Edmure is a limp fish, brother.” Tyrion chuckled, waddling over to sit beside him. His brother was still looking smug, but Jaime thought he noticed a sliver of pity as Tyrion looked him over. “The wench is as stubborn as a mule,” he finished. 

“Then you’re going to need a carrot,” Tyrion told him, chuckling again. 

Jaime opened his mouth to ask what his brother was suggesting but rustling behind them had both men on their feet in seconds. Addam, astride Copper, came bursting into the clearly not a moment later. He reined his horse up and hailed Tyrion and Jaime, raising his hand. “Where are the others? We’ve got a few of those rabbits your men brought back over the fire, have Bronn pull them off.”

“Ser Orly and the others are sweeping the forest, Ser Jaime. We’re being followed,” Addam said, swinging off his horse and coming over to the brothers with a grave look on his face. 

Tyrion made a noise behind him, but Jaime only nodded. “How many?”

“At least 5, likely more. They’ve been using the Red Fork to cover their tracks. Swimmers. They have archers with them as well.”

“I hate archers,” Jaime muttered, scowling. Addam only laughed and clapped him on the back. 

“Cowards, the lot of them,” Addam agreed. “Camp close tonight, we’ll take rotating watch but you should have two on sentry.”

Jaime agreed, nodding seriously. “I want your men to check in at camp when they change watch, we’ll keep two on here all night. How long have they been with us?”

“A few days at least, possibly since Riverrun,” he answered, his face and voice flat as he reported. “If they are swimming, we won’t be able to tell how far back they caught us.” He nodded again. If they hadn’t attacked the camp then perhaps they wouldn’t, Jaime didn’t want to take the chance. 

“Tyrion, Bronn and Pod will take first watch, inform them. Brienne and I will take the second. Tell the pigheaded wench that I would like to speak with her. Addam, I want you and one of your men, whichever is going to take the first watch with you, to eat and try to get some sleep. We’re going to need you fresh. I don’t like this.” 

Addam immediately turned and headed back to camp, striding purposefully and silently acknowledging the direct orders. Tyrion did not move so quickly. “Is this your plan, brother?”

“For keeping us alive?”

“For cleaning up the mess you made at Riverrun. I must say, I do admire your quick thinking, I may have underestimated you.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Jaime replied, sighing. Tyrion waddled off after Addam, abandoning his brother to the woods and dark thoughts. Jaime stared back up at the reddening foliage and wondered if it was yet snowing in the Vale. He suspected it would be. He heard Brienne coming. She had a deliberate, heavy sort of walk that he recognized easily. “I was afraid you would send Tyrion back with his lion’s tail between those short legs of his.”

“We are being tracked,” she answered flatly, ignoring his attempt at levity. _Fine_ , he thought, _have it your way_. 

“We are. You are taking second watch with me. Pod will be on first watch with Bronn. Tyrion and Shae are a liability, so they will not be helping with this. Move your things to my tent.”

“No.”

“Do not fight me on this,” he said to the trees before him, not wanting to turn around and let her see how angry he was, how tired.

“I would prefer-”

“I do not care what you would prefer. You are not bedding down with that green boy, and no one is sleeping alone.” He spun and was surprised at how near she had been standing to his back. The wind rustled the leaves in the trees, but he was focused on her slow breathing. She was angry too, but she was trying not to let him see it. “War is hard, men see terrible things. They say and do terrible things. I said what I had to for Edmure to surrender the castle, and I stand by my word, I would have done it. But I would not have told him I would do it unless I knew he wouldn’t let me. Do you understand? Believe me, I am not like to launch a child at a castle wall.”

“Good,” she whispered to the cold ground, her voice quiet and steady. She went to speak, to likely leave him, but Jaime was not finished. He was too tired of sleeping alone to let her walk away from him.

“I am keeping my oath to Lady Stark. I had no love for the woman, and less respect for a vow wrung from my lips at sword point, I keep it only because _you_ cared for her. She was a woman of honor, and even though Catelyn Stark wrongfully imprisoned my brother and her son started this damned war, she took you into her service after Renly’s death, and for that I owe her a debt. She brought you back to me.” He ventured a step forward and for the first time in a fortnight Brienne did not step away. He took another. Still she was unmoving. 

“Why does that matter? You do not love me, and you are not sworn to me. I am no one. You are sworn to your King, and your _sister_.” Her voice regained its strength and he heard a shaky conviction that made him smile. _Stupid, stubborn girl_. 

“I am sworn to my King, but I meant what I said when I told you I would never leave again. I won’t. I let them take you away once and in doing so I broke the first vow I ever swore. It was not a good start, I think you’ll agree. After, I did nothing but swear and swear, for years. And for every oath I swore it seemed I was breaking another. That is what being too good, too young, does to a man. It makes him cocky and arrogant. I was Loras Tyrell with more foul secrets and less flowers to hide the stench.” He lifted his gloved hand to her face and traced her cheek. “Do you think I would hold you, kiss you, if I was still hers? When I was with Cersei I saw no other woman, heard no other woman. There was no one else in the whole world but her and me. But now, now there is _you_.” Brienne was fisting her hands at her sides and he wasn’t sure if she meant to hit him, strangle him, or if she longed to tear off his armor and kiss him. 

Probably hit him.

He took a breath and continued when she stayed silent, obviously refusing to acknowledge his admission. “I am not ashamed of my love for Cersei.” He felt her recoil, but he plowed on quickly before she had time to decide she had enough and left him alone. “We don’t get to choose who we love, Brienne. But I _am_ ashamed of what I have done to hide it. I owe the Starks this much.”

She bit her lip when he leaned forward, her large teeth gnawing at the chapped flesh. He wanted to kiss her, almost did, but instead his right hand went to her left hip and he unsheathed her sword. “Jaime!” She gave a little shout as he danced back, her sword in his grip. He swung it expertly, tested the weight. It was a good sword, with good steel and a good balance, made in King’s Landing by Tobho Mott, if he had to guess. “My sword, ser.” Her face had regained its color and her eyes were lit like fireflies, blue and bright.

“I think you have forgotten, this is my sword, it did come from the armory in King’s Landing, did it not?”

She huffed. “You know that it did, ser.”

“Call me Jaime, it’s not hard, you just did it.”

“My sword, Jaime.”

“You are the most stubborn, pig-headed woman I have ever known. Don’t you want to know why I’ve taken back my sword?”

“I don’t care. If you’ll not give it back I can find another.”

“Addam does not know for sure how long we’ve been tracked for, we could be attacked. I will not have you fighting with anything but this.” He unsheathed his own sword, the Valyrian steel blade that his father had forged. He had used it for nothing but parting the silk of his tent, and the edge glinted dangerously in the midday sun. He unwrapped the belt from his waist and sheathed the sword before extending it to her. “A sword so fine should bear a name, and I have not yet named this blade. It would please me if you called it Oathkeeper, my Lady.”

“I can’t take this. It is Valyrian steel, and a gift from your father.”

“Nothing comes from Tywin Lannister without a price, and the price for this sword would be my white cloak.” The going price for you as well. “This sword was made from the shards of Ned Stark’s greatsword, Ice, use it to find and protect Sansa Stark. I promise Lord and Lady Stark would prefer you to have it, and I have nothing else to give you but my honor.” He held out the blade again and this time Brienne took it, experimentally unsheathing the sword and swinging it carefully. The steel in the blade seemed to swirl as she moved, the red and black ripples shimmering. When she stopped to admire the blade he stepped forward and began unbuckling her sword belt, happy to be able to touch her again without her shying from him. 

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she said very close to his ear as he worked at her belt, and a shiver ran from the top of his head, down his spine and settled pleasantly in his hips. She did not press a kiss to his temple, but he felt her mouth close enough to stir the hair there.

“Ser Jaime? Am I forgiven then, wench? You only call me _Ser Jaime_ when you’re happy with me,” he said, smiling. She blushed and spluttered as he wrapped her sword belt around his waist. 

She did agree to bed down with him that night and though he tried not to seem eager, she entered their tent again he wrapped himself around her like a hungry kraken. He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in. Brienne shivered and held him back tentatively. When she stripped off her armor he turned away at her behest but when she was clothed he pulled her back against him. “Gods, wench, I’ve missed you.”

“I rather liked sharing with Podrick, he’s a good lad, keeps to himself,” she told him, trying to loosen Jaime’s grip on her. He ignored her and dragged Brienne to his pallet, laying her down and curling himself behind her. Their swords were beside them, both hilts in easy reach. He was too tired to reply or to argue, he just pulled her closer and slid his finger along her warm, exposed stomach and listened as his breathing evened out. 

They were waked for their watch in the dead of night, the evening air more chill than he expected. Thankfully Bronn and Podrick reported no activity in the woods. Addam and Orly reported the same. Ser Gavyn and Ser Mikal were taking the next watch outside of camp. Jaime could hear the two men bickering from the trees as they took up their post. 

They spent five nights in this way, pressing harder during the day than they had been and with a heavy guard during the nights. Jaime slept better beside Brienne, nuzzled into her back and with his lips pressed to her neck, but none of them were sleeping particularly well. There was evidence of still being tracked, as they were reminded daily by Ser Addam. Broken branches, boot tracks, and false trails used to confuse them, led Jaime to believe that the party would not easily shake their pursuers. It did seem, rather strangely, that whoever was following them didn’t seem to have an interest in killing them. It did set him on edge, and more than once he’d unsuccessfully sent Addam and his men to flush their followers out. Whoever it was had a better knowledge of the Riverlands and were never too close. 

They followed the Red Fork, steadily heading northwest. Jaime intended to reach the Trident in a day or two more and after that they would abandon the river and head for the Bloody Gate. They would have to rely much too heavily on Ser Addam, Ser Orly, Ser Gavyn and Ser Mikel as they grew nearer to the Eyrie. Tyrion knew the clansmen in the region, was on good terms with many of them, but that was no guarantee his brother could keep them from being slain and made into leather to protect some barbarian in the ever coming winter.

It was early evening when they were taken.

The sun had already set, it seemed to be happening early and early with every passing day, and a violet twilight had settled on them. Shae and Tyrion were working on a pot of fish stew. They heard Ser Gavyn and Ser Mikel shout a warning before the woods erupted with torches and steel. Men flowed into camp, more than ten and five, Jaime thought bitterly as they were overrun. _Whispering Wood_ , he thought to himself, unsheathing his sword and cutting down the first man that met him. Brienne was beside him, swinging Oathkeeper with deadly force. He was not so focused on the battle that he did not see Brienne easily slice in half a man with filed teeth that looked as sharp as a wolf’s. The men that were coming at them were malnourished, filthy, and savage. Addam and Orly were up and had joined in the fray immediately, along with Bronn and Podrick who were holding their own across the fire pit. Jaime was concerned that he did not see Tyrion or Shae though there were men near the fire. He shoved one of the brutes lumbering towards him into their still burning coals and drove his sword through another man’s neck, but there were too many. They were surrounded, and though none of them had fallen the men showed no signs of slowing or stopping. Brienne’s grunting was labored behind him, though she was moving fluidly and killing men in a way that could only be considered violently graceful. _I do love a violent woman_.

Still they came pouring into the small glade eventually capturing their query. Jaime fought savagely until one of their captors cuffed Brienne in the jaw. He dropped to his knees beside her to examine the wound and they were quickly joined by Ser Addam, Ser Orly, Ser Gavyn, Ser Mikel, Bronn, Podrick, and lastly Shae and Tyrion were dragged over. The two had bits of moss on their faces and twigs in their hair. Jaime suspected Shae had tried to drag Tyrion into the undergrowth but were not quick enough to hide from the men who Jaime assumed were the Brotherood Without Banners. They were rangier than he expected, dirty and savage looking. A man in a piss yellow cloak was shouting orders that were barely followed as they took stock of the men they lost.

“Gave us a fight there Kingslayer, you and your whore killed a lot of our men. You’re going to pay for that.”

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” said Jaime calmly, baring his teeth in a venomous smirk before spitting on the man’s hideously colored clothes. 

“Oh, you’ll pay, don’t you be worried about that. Our lady will make sure o’ it.” The man, seemingly the leader of the band of raiders that caught them, kicked dirt in Jaime’s face and walked away, leaving them to be dragged to their feet. 

Burlap sacks were placed over their heads and they were mounted on horses, back-to-back. It was eerily reminiscent of his and Brienne’s time with the Bloody Mummers. He gripped her hands in his, warmed between the smalls of their backs. She didn’t say anything, but she squeezed back. He wondered whether the others were with them, he did not think they would be split up. He assumed they were being taken to the _Hang Woman_ that the smallfolk around Riverrun had been so concerned about. She didn’t seem the type to quibble with rank and class, she hanged all men indiscriminately. And women too, most like. Perhaps that would be a better fate for Brienne and Shae than the rapes that he was sure they would endure were they left in the hands of a leaderless Brotherhood Without Banners. Beric Dondarrion would not have permitted it, surely, and he hoped they would too be spared that torment by the Lady Stoneheart, whoever she turned out to be. _Then again, perhaps not_. He did not know much about the new leader of Dondarrion’s brotherhood.

The trees rustled and the hooves of their horses crunched on the dry, dying grass. Honor was beneath them and Jaime found he was oddly comforted by the familiar sway and roll of his mount. He was a good stead, strong, a war horse if ever there was one. Brienne’s mare, Nym, was a concern. She loved her horse well, Nym had been chosen for her by him and he had made sure to get the finest horse in King’s Landing. He hated the thought of the beautiful beast being sold off and butchered for meat in the coming winter. 

They were dragged from their saddles sometime before dawn, the going had been long and slow but from what he had gathered they were being taken in the wrong direction. He could do nothing but seethe over their lost miles, giving little care that they would potentially be killed before it would matter that they had lost ground. He would be damned to the seven hells if he was going to break his promise to Brienne, to the Lady Stark as well, all so some band of filthy rebels could have a famous head on a spike. _Or in a noose_ , he thought. His fingers were tangled with Brienne’s and he was rubbing her hands both to comfort her and to relieve the numbness and tingling from being bound. In turn she rubbed back, the pads of her fingers making soft little circles on his skin. It was altogether too gentle, too calm, for their predicament. 

It took hours for them to reach their destination. In that time he heard little from his fellow captives, only the occasional grunt and he thought he caught Tyrion’s voice talking back to someone who only grunted in response. Jaime feared he might hear his brother being struck, Tyrion did have a way of irritating his lessers, but he seemed to manage avoiding bodily harm for the time being. He did hear a few things from their captors. They were fool-hardy and talkative once the journey started in earnest. They argued about food and money, he noticed, and they sounded divided on their new leader. Some spoke reverently of, apparently actually dead, Beric Dondarrion. They lamented his loss and complained of the one they only called, _Our Lady_. Those men were quickly silenced by the majority, which seemed devout to the cold woman who called herself Lady Stoneheart. 

When they were pulled from their horses Jaime was shoved immediately to his knees and dragged forward. He heard the other being dragged behind him as he was lashed to a tree. Some of the men were talking, saying they wanted to have a go at the ‘Kingslayer’s whore’ and others who wanted the younger brother’s ‘Foreign Bitch.’ He gritted his teeth and smiled underneath his burlap hood when he heard the tell-tale crack of Brienne’s head cracking against whoever dared call her his whore. He also heard Shae’s Lyseni accent, thick and insulting as she cursed at her captors. He could hear her practically spitting venom when one of the men of rank, whatever rank they followed in that vagabond band, ordered the women remain untouched. Brienne was thrown down beside him, lashed tightly against his right side. He felt someone on his left as well but he couldn’t tell who it was, only that they were armored and tall and therefore not Tyrion. 

Eventually fires were lit, men talked and ate and argued. No one fed the captives, but the fires were large and numerous and kept him relatively warm. Strangely the talking grew quieter suddenly instead of louder and more raucous. He was surprised to hear chanting from the camp, low and solemn. 

“ _Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord_ ,” they started, a chill running through him that had nothing to do with the cool air. “ _Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path . R'hllor, your are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night._ ”

He was listening so intently that he jerked stiffly when the burlap was dragged from his head. 

“Kingslayer.”

Thoros of Myr was standing in front of him, bent down awkwardly. The drunk looked thinner than Jaime remembered him, more haggard. He was wearing a cloak and robes that were once red but had faded to a pinkish color and were muddied for a several inches on the bottom. His thinner brown hair looked sooty. “Thoros, if it isn’t the Red Wizard,” Jaime greeted him, as though they were friends. He still remembered the drunk who had stormed the breech with a war cry and a flaming sword. He had been a madman, it had been glorious. “Sounds like your Red God is growing popular, you must be quite the priest, Thoros.”

“I am a bad wizard and a worse priest, as you well know, Lannister. The Lord of Light has more followers every day but not by any fault of mine, he gives life.” Thoros was hunched in the moonlight, the fires glowing behind him and silhouetting his ragged form.

“Yes, he gives life and death too, apparently. Don’t see how that makes the Lord of Light any different from any other God. Men have lived and died since before the First Men without any help from the Lord of Light. Where is the other Lord you serve, where is Beric? I hear your men. They say he is finally dead.”

“Lightning comes and goes and then is no more. So it is too with men. You have heard correct, Lord Beric’s fire has gone out of this world, I fear. A grimmer shadow leads in his place.”

“ _Lord of Light, defend us,_ ” the men chanted ahead of him, their faces dark against the fires.

“You’re going to die tonight, Kingslayer. I’m only here to hear you confess before you hang, if that is what you want. The Lord of Lignt will forgive you.”

“He can keep his absolution. I would prefer to survive this,” he told the old red priest, sighing. It was Ser Addam who was beside him and Jaime heard his friend stifle a laugh. He marveled that Addam still found him entertaining, even though they were captured by men who meant hang them. Brienne was not laughing. 

“She hangs all those who betrayed her,” Thoros muttered, shaking his head, “she will kill you.”

Jaime shrugged. “She will try. If I have betrayed this _Lady Stoneheart_ than I will demand a trial by battle.”

Thoros only patted his shoulder and pulled the sack back over Jaime’s head. “There are no more trials, no justice, only judgment.” His voice still had the flavor of the Free Cities, but it was darker and less carefree than Jaime remembered. 

“ _The night is dark and full of terrors,_ ” the men chanted, “ _Lord of Light, protect us. R'hllor who gave us breath, we thank you. R'hllor who gave us day, we thank you. We thank you for the sun that warms us. We thank you for the stars that watch us. We thank you for our hearths and for our torches that keep the savage dark at bay._ ” 

“Our grey lady sends for you,” Thoros whispered loud enough for the rest of them to hear and then he was gone. Thoros returned with reinforcements, strong arms pulling Jaime to his feet. He could hear the others being untied as well and unceremoniously dragged up. They were pulled along only a short distance, stumbling in the dark. He could see the flames dance through the tiny holes in the sack over his head, but at least the chanting had stopped. 

Jaime could smell cooking food and his mouth watered, regardless of impending doom. This would not be the end of him. He wasn’t going to let some hooded woman hang him from a tree to be food for the crows. He wouldn’t let that happen to Brienne or Tyrion, to Addam or Shae either. They would not die, he was sure of it, but he felt a shiver of fear creep up the back of his neck when he was pushed to his knees and the sack was taken from his head again. There was a pit before them, filled with fire that danced and swayed menacingly. The fire was not a source of light and warmth, but filled him with an unmistakable dread. They were surrounded on all sides by men, filthy and cheering. He heard them shouting for his demise. 

_Kingslayer. Imp. Kingslayer’s Whore._

_Hang them. Hang them. HANG THEM!_

“What crime have we committed? Was Lord Beric in the habit of hanging all travelers he came across?” Tyrion’s acidic tone cut through the cacophony of voices. 

“You are a Lannister, my lady names you guilty. You will hang, Imp.” The man speaking wasn’t Thoros, but instead a Northman they had not seen before. He had dark, shaggy hair and darker eyes. They looked black against the firelight but Jaime thought that was only a trick of the fire. The large blaze made everything seem strange and shimmering, eerie. 

“Please, we are on an important errand,” he heard Brienne plead, though she sounded calm. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Quiet, whore, you will hang with the rest of the lions,” one of the men spat, though Jaime noted he shrank back slightly when Brienne surged against her bonds. 

“She is no lion, the lady is Brienne of Tarth, and she is innocent of Lannister crimes.” He hoped his defense sounded casual, that they'd think she meant little and less to him. If there was any hint of their connection he knew she would swing.

“She stinks of lion,” said the Northman that spoke for the Hangwoman. He leant down to listen to the hooded figure beside him before beckoning the guards. “Bring the woman!” Brienne was hauled forward, only to be knocked down to her knees before the woman who presumed to judge them. The woman tilted her head and Jaime wondered what Brienne was seeing beneath that hood, if anything. The Northman made a show of listening to the faint hissing that Jaime could finally make out coming from the grey lady. “She asks you what the name of your blade is.” Brienne looked to her side and Jaime saw the shock on her face. _Oathkeeper._ The gift was strapped to her side, a glittering death sentence with ruby eyes and a great golden mane. 

“Oathkeeper,” she said surely, her tone defiant. He hoped her eyes were as hard as her tone, he hoped the grey lady would sense Brienne’s obvious honor. 

The Northman, at the behest of that woman who looked more like the Stranger than any lady Jaime had ever seen, laughed. “She says ‘Oathbreaker’ would be more fitting. She names your sword _False Friend_ , like its master.” 

Brienne was quiet for a moment before he heard her rally. He saw her back snap straight and her head lift up. “I have broken no oaths, nor have I sworn any to _you_.” Her voice was as clear as a bell in the clearing, and her meaning was unmistakable. She would never swear an oath to the likes of that dread lady. 

“How soon you southerners forget!” The Northman laughed. “Do you not recognize to whom you are speaking?” Jaime’s blood ran cold when the Northman backed away and the lady stepped forward into the light. The fire cast shadows behind the woman and he saw her cloak only looked grey in the dark. The material was actually a muddy blue, _Tully blue_. 

When the hood fell back Brienne did not scream. Jaime wondered if it was because her voice had frozen in her throat like his seemed to. The strips of flesh that hung from the woman’s face were as grey as he had thought her cloak had been, and bits of bone peaked from the gaping breaks on her cheeks. Her eyes were sunken and black like coal, little more than holes, and her throat was little more than a tattered gash of rotted meat. He couldn’t help but call up Galladon’s pale, bloated face. The boy’s water logged flesh and this woman’s flesh were the same, swollen and dead. From beneath her cloak she lifted a hand, pale and bony with half its meat missing. She dug her fingers, or what was left of them, into the mangled patch of meat across her throat and the hissing he had heard earlier was given more of a shape, though he still couldn't understand her. Tyrion cursed quietly at his side and he heard Shae whispering a Lyseni prayer that sounded low and desperate. 

It was Brienne who spoke first. “My lady,” she whispered, “what have they done to you?” 

Lady Stark tilted her head in an appraising sort of way, chunks of her brittle auburn hair dripping over her shoulder as she did. Her hand twisted again in the column of her neck, the squelching of her flesh enough to nearly make him sick. “ _Killed me_ ,” she hissed. He could hardly make out the words rasping from the hole in her neck instead of her mouth. 

“I’m sorry, I am so sorry.” Brienne was near to tears and her shoulders slumped forward. “My lady,” she begged again and again, her head down. He didn’t blame her. The sight of Lady Stark was grotesque. 

She was hissing again, stronger, but the words were too harsh and unformed. The Northerner picked up the string of dialogue again, thankfully. “She doesn’t want your apologies. She wants her children back, her son, and her daughters. Or she wants the men who harmed them.” _Unlikely_ , he thought, considering her son was deader than she was and, if Joffery was to be believed, short a head. “Don’t you worry girl, we’re getting all those for her. All she wants from you is _Jaime Lannister_.” 

_Gods_ , he thought as the scene flashed before him, _I’m going to die for her_. The thought was oddly calming. He had been foolish to think he could escape this fate, his name. He looked at Tyrion, who was gape-mouthed at his side, and felt a pang of regret. He would die for Brienne, and Tyrion would die for him. It was strange. He had always thought he would perish with Cersei, wrapped in her long, milky arms. He had never thought of Tyrion dying, it had never occurred to him that his little brother would get into a scrape that Jaime wouldn’t be able to get him out off. 

Brienne broke through his musings. “No,” she cried, her voice breaking. “No, you don’t understand. Lady Catelyn, he is not the man he was. He is _better_. He gave me this sword to protect myself and your daughter, we seek Sansa.”

“For his whore of a sister!” The Northman shouted and Brienne flinched visibly. It broke his heart a little to see it, making his chest ache.

“No!” She shouted back, struggling to keep her back straight and looking up into the horrid face of her dead lady. “No, to take her somewhere safe! Jaime has more honor than you know, he cared for me. I would have been raped, I would have been killed. He was all I had. He saved me, he always saved me!” She was yelling and he thought he even heard her sob through her words. 

“Brienne,” he said, but no one was listening, least of all her. “Brienne,” he tried again, but again his voice croaked quietly beneath her pleas. “Stop!” He finally managed to bellow. She does. What is left of Lady Catelyn Stark raised its head and met his eyes with its own. They were fathomless and black, dead. 

“Wench,” he demanded, never breaking contact with the beast that wants him hanged, “kill me. Let them kill me” 

She was muttering furiously, “no,” over and over again, shaking her head. 

“Yes, but Lady Stoneheart,” he started, but he scrunched his nose and peered at her ragged face. “May I call you Lady Stoneheart or do you prefer Lady Stark? Not much of the wolf about you anymore is there? Just another rotting fish.” There was a gasp from his right but he could not tell whom it came from. “If you string me up, let her go, and my brother. The rest of my men as well. They have done nothing to deserve your ire. It was my father that slaughtered your men and my nephew that killed your husband. It was I who crippled your boy. It’s _me_ you want, not the rest of them. Let them walk away from this.”

She smiled at him and it was the grimmest thing he had ever seen. Her teeth were pocked and yellowed, looking longer than he remembered them being. _Perhaps there is something of the wolf about you still._

When she hissed at him then, he understood her. “ _No_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, a cliffhanger!! I know, don't kill me! There is a lot to do and I just didn't want to do it all at once. I promise, there will be a lovely payoff!
> 
> As always every kudo, commment, question, critique, and every single view is loved and appreciated. Thanks again for reading! I hope you're enjoying things so far. :)


	26. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Stoneheart and an unexpected ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you may know, and many of you do not, I have been going through a rather difficult time. It seems as if the last few months have flown by in a blur of unfortunate events. I had always, however, intended to get back to this work. I know we're all used to waiting, being fans of ASOIAF, and I cannot promise that I will update as regularly as before, but I can promise it will definitely not take me another 4 months to post another chapter.
> 
> If you are reading this then you have made the choice to stay with this story, and to continue to support me, and for that you have my most heartfelt thanks. A great big thank you must always go out as well to my wonderful, and far too kind to me, beta - Snowfright - you are the absolute tops!

“You will swing, whore, all the lions swing here.” The man in the yellow cloak was chuckling to himself. In his hand was _Oathkeeper_ , shining despite the lack of sunlight in the wood. The cloud cover had only just broken and the miserable rain had stopped finally, but their clearing was still cloaked in grey green darkness. Oathkeeper, he lamented, was not meant for the soiled, filthy hands it resided in. Yet, perhaps there was some justice still, that allowed for Ned Stark’s steel to be the very same that would separate Jaime Lannister’s golden head from his shoulders and pay the debt he owed the Starks. 

“You’re a smart man, Lem, you know there's a rope in your future too if you kill both of Tywin Lannister’s sons.” Tyrion attempted to bribe the great yellow fool into releasing them with little success. Perhaps his brother had not seen Lady Stoneheart as well as Jaime had? No man with even half his wits would cross the woman whom each of the seven hells had rejected. He was no stranger to such madness. Lem would die screaming, Jaime was sure, for such treason as stealing Lady Stoneheart’s vengeance from her. 

Instead Lem would kill them all, one by one, until it was only Jaime left to stare at the bloated, lifeless faces with their black, swollen tongues swinging before his eyes. If he was lucky, the bastard would chop off Jaime’s head quickly and let that be the end of it. If he was unlucky, it could be worse. Before the hanging there would be rapes, Brienne and Shae screaming and crying as Lady Stoneheart’s men took them for sport. There would be torture and pain for the men who had followed him away from the relative safety of the Capitol, for his brother. There would be lashes and hot pokers, melted flesh. They would wish for death before the Stranger came for them. _They flay people in the frigid North_ , he suddenly thought, hoping desperately Lady Stark knew little of the ways of House Bolton. 

He was dragged forward, further still from the other captives. “Any last words, Kingslayer?” 

Jaime stared into Lem’s watery blue eyes and cocked his head. “Were you taught to say that before killing a man?” He asked conversationally. ‘It seems I’ve heard it before but I’ve slain countless and don’t recall ever saying the words myself. Perhaps it is a Northern tradition?” 

Lady Stoneheart was hissing grotesquely behind Lem but she was too far away for him to understand the rasping words that gurgled from between her rotted lips. He doubted either way it was a witty reply, Lady Catelyn had never been fond of his particular type of humor. There was a titter behind him at the joke but only silence followed, his companions quiet in the face of execution. Jaime felt a sense of pride swell in his breast. His soldiers, his brother, Brienne, all were strong and all were still. They knelt beneath their gallows, dignified in the face of death and the dead, with ropes around their necks. Each one earned a place beside the Warrior with their calm. 

He peered up at his captor, smiling a crooked smile at the ugly yellow-cloaked man as Lem raised the sword that would kill him. It seemed whatever words Lady Stoneheart had rasped out were understandable enough. It was time that Oathkeeper claim the debts of House Stark from House Lannister. He thought he heard birds chirping, twanging in the trees. The whistle of the wind filled his ears and he closed his eyes on the putrid woman and her band of filthy worshipers to think of the Rock. He thought of golden Cersei lying in a bed of Lady’s Lace and of Galladon racing alongside him beneath the mountain, cold, wet rocks beneath their feet. Addam and Tyrion, perched on barrels of wine, laughing at the stories of a young, promising squire. Blue skies, green grass, and Brienne’s little hand wrapped in his own, her blond curls dripping water, and laughing as he lifted her into the air and showered kisses on her cheeks. 

_Perhaps I will die dreaming of spring._

A second passed, and then another, on and on time went for several moments of almost death. Yet he lived. The blow did not come. Jaime opened his eyes in time to watch a bright, red flower bloom on the chest of Lem Lemoncloak. The wind was not whistling through the leaves, no. It was bow strings chirping and shafts that shrieked amongst the trees and found their homes in arms and legs, necks and chests. Lem warbled as another arrow broke the skin above his gorget, his mouth bubbling with blood. Twice he had been near to death, twice on the block, and twice the Kingslayer had been spared. The rose of blood staining Lem’s cloak was eerily similar to the bloom that had burst around the knife driven through Zollo the Fat and for one shocking moment Jaime thought the Maid of Tarth had saved him again, though he knew that Brienne was bound behind him.

“The Kinglsayer!” Rasped Lady Stoneheart loudly, fumbling forward on brittle legs. Lem dropped Oathkeeper and Jaime lunged forward with bound hands and scrambled for the gold hilt in the dirt. He raised the blade defensively and made to impale that monster that lurched towards him. She had dared to judge him, had deemed him unworthy, but a hand on his shoulder pulled Jaime off balance and he fell back. 

Brienne was there shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. _No_ , she mouthed, unable to speak, as silent as the woman to whom she had once sworn service. _No_. He almost shrugged her off, almost stood and left her there, to slay the monster that had threatened them all. He did not. Instead he turned his head to watch with Brienne, as Lady Stoneheart was filled with stinging arrows. She could not scream. She could not cry out. Instead her death was punctuated with guttural rasps as she clawed at the ground, attempting to drag herself close enough to slay her captives. Lady Stoneheart did not bleed, for she had bled out in the river that had been her grave after the Red Wedding, she only died. 

The fight was over before it has even properly started, Lady Stoneheart and her band of thugs and outlaws had the low ground and the archers were in the trees. The dead, wet leaves that blanketed the ground began to smoke and some even burned around the clearing. In the stories and songs battles were long and elegant, swords gleamed and the sun shined through the trees like glittering glass. The reality was different. Battles were short and bloody, the skirmishes naught but screams and ashy cinders. He expected Lady Stoneheart’s bony hands to twitch back to life as Brienne cut at his ropes, how she escaped her own he had no idea, but a burning arrow struck the dead lady and lit. Her frail skin curled and blackened quickly as more fiery shafts hit their mark. Flames licked at her blackened, shriveled fresh, curling it back to reveal pale white bone. The fire was beautiful as it roared, crackling to life. It was a better end than she was given at the Twins, a more deserving end. 

“Jaime,” Brienne murmured and he turned from the burning corpse, Lady Stark’s funeral pyre. She had mud on her face and tears, her eyes wide and wounded. He had killed a king, had slain countless men that were flesh and blood and fiery spirit. Lady Stoneheart was evil, nothing to him, the rotting husk of the woman she had once been. But to Brienne she had been a true friend, trusted in life if not in death. After trusting so few, and losing so many, he ached for her loss.

Gathering her in his newly freed arms, Jaime kissed her cheeks and forehead and mouth and neck. He pulled her to him, as near to in his lap as he could manage with a woman her size, and held her tightly. Her strong shoulders shook and heaved beneath his but he held her only tighter, knowing that she watched the dancing flames over his shoulder. 

“I almost let her kill you,” Ser Brynden said while stepping around the pair huddled on the ground, his sword drawn. “Almost.” His voice was dull as the Blackfish watched the body burn for what seemed like an age before he turned back to regard them. His sword was leveled to pierce Jaime’s neck, unwavering. Jaime’s grip tightened on Oathkeeper, how he would lift it in time to block a blow with Brienne of Tarth in his lap he had no idea, but he held on all the same.

“I owe you a debt,” Jaime finally replied, meeting Ser Brynden’s eye. Brienne shifted in his arms to pull away. Though his hold on her was awkward he could not bring himself to release the girl. “You have been following us, swimming downstream,” he worked out aloud, the picture growing clearer in his mind. Lady Stoneheart was half-mad, she would not have had the patience to track them. No. Their shadows had been calculating and calm, cold as a fish. She had been only lucky to come across them. Their real pursuers, the ones Addam had been attempting to ferret out, had been Brynden Tully’s men all along.

“You’re lucky I was. We came across Ser Orly not an hour after you were taken. Good lad, I reckon he found us hoping to save you. Could have left the lot of you to the crows and instead risked us cutting him down. You owe _your man_ a debt, Kingslayer, you owe me what you promised Cat, _her daughters_.” Brienne stiffened and leaned away from him finally. Her face was blotched with red, streaked and dirty. It did nothing to improve her look, but it silenced Brynden Tully which was a blessing from the Seven.

“We will find them,” Brienne told the Blackfish, her voice steadier than Jaime expected.

“The Lady swore an oath to Catelyn Stark to protect her daughters. She takes her vows very seriously, and I go where the Lady goes. A Lannister always pays his debts, Ser.” Jaime brushed a bit of hair from her eyes and smiled at the blush beneath her tears and ruddy cheeks. 

“Oh yes, one way or another you will pay your debts, Kingslayer, one way or another.” The Blackfish chuckled darkly and offered Jaime a hand up. He was reminded of the man he had looked up to as a child and felt a sudden and somewhat inexplicable rush of pride and fear. It seemed he had garnered at least some small part of the Blackfish’s approval, it only took being near beheaded on the blade of his brother’s monstrous, undead daughter. Jaime would have preferred to stay on the ground, perhaps with the addition of a tent, a blanket and a nest of pillows for he and Brienne to sleep on, but instead he stood and she with him. The Blackfish, living up to his name, slipped away from them without further discussion but Jaime had a feeling it would not be long before Ser Brynden returned with more demands. 

“You are an idiot,” Tyrion muttered when he approached them. He was rubbing his raw wrists and drinking from a skein of water deeply, “but we are alive and I am willing to forgive you, brother.” Shae was walking beside him, her dress torn at the hem, the bit of jagged-edged purple fabric tied around Tyrion’s head and already bloodied. Her cheek was bruised and slightly swollen. Jaime shivered. Shae looked to have fought off at least one attacker. Had there been more? Had Brienne? He wanted to ask her, but knew it would be better to do so when they were alone. Instead he let her be led away by Podrick to be seen after, she had a rather bad burn on her arm that was concerning. He tried not to imagine how she had gotten it, or what had gone one while he stared at the inside of a moldy burlap sack during the night.

“For what do I warrant your forgiveness, little brother?” He asked, sitting. Tyrion collapsed into a heap beside him, observing the chaos that the Blackfish’s men had wrought. What had been dry or dead in the makeshift camp of Lady Stoneheart’s had burned, but most of the clearing had been damp from the days rain and merely smoldered and smoked. The air was acrid and the ground was covered with a greasy black layer of soggy soot. “I think perhaps your time would be better spent thanking the Blackfish than absolving me.” 

“You are right, and I intend to do just that. But I do forgive you, brother, for being a great, bloody fool for our sister and for making Lady Stark our family’s enemy,” he sighed, “and I thank you for somehow being the lesser evil when it came to the Brotherhood. You must have made quite an impression on the drawbridge at Riverrun.” 

Jaime wiped his face with his hands, thought they were no cleaner, and dragged his nails through his hair. “We are still the enemy, _I_ am still the enemy.”

“Yes, for Bran... and our family owes a debt for the head of Ned Stark. Whatever this was, it was not our fault. The massacre at the Twins caused this and that was father acting with the Freys.” Jaime nodded, knowing what his brother said was the truth. He could still remember Joffrey’s joy at the news of the Red Wedding and not for the first time was nearly glad at the death of his firstborn. “Still,” Tyrion continued, “I admit that, in what I thought were my last moments, I cursed you and our dear, sweet sister before our father. I apologize.” 

Jaime smiled. “You’ve always been jealous of our cheekbones, brother, I cannot blame you. I accept your apology.” Tyrion laughed. 

Jaime had made mistakes, all men do, and he was the last man who would ask for pardon. Yet he was truly glad of Tyrion’s forgiveness, whether it was deserved or not. His brother crossed his stunted legs and leaned back slightly, examining the dripping canopy above their heads. “She was dead, wasn’t she?” His brother’s eyes went to the now charred, still burning, remains of Lady Stoneheart. “She can’t have been, but she was. Dead and walking and, Gods Jaime, she spoke.”

“She was much more eloquent when she lived,” Jaime grumbled. “Thoros of Myr is the man I think we can blame for that.”

“He is not here, or at least I have not seen him amongst the dead.” And it was true, Jaime had looked as well but saw no sign of the Red Priest.

“The men at Riverrun told me stories, they spoke of Beric Dondarrion.”

His brother nodded. “They said he could not die, that Thoros gave him the kiss of life. I thought it was ale talking.”

“Beric is gone, I spoke with Thoros while the fires burned and he was sober. It was the first time I think I have heard him sober, come to think on it. He did not sound pleased with his lady.” Jaime remembered the priest’s words. _A grimmer shadow leads in his place_ , he had said to Jaime as the fires burned through the night.

“Perhaps Beric finally tired of life and chose death, gave his life for honorable Lady Stark instead.”

“You think it was sorcery then, truly? You think this is the work of some foreign God? There is no such thing as magic, brother.”

“Ah, but you forget, there are reports of dragons across the narrow sea when all the dragons are dead and have been for hundreds of years. They speak of White Walkers in the North, and those beasts are just legends, a story. The Stark children tamed Direwolves.” Jaime shook his head and bit his lip, listening to his brother who had always been the smart one, as the first hint of crisp air broke through the acrid smoke. “Something is coming,” he finished seriously.

“Winter,” Jaime said with a sigh. 

His little brother nodded by his side. “A long one.” 

The Blackfish had five and ten men, as Addam had suspected. With their host that made them a respectable company of five and twenty. The lions were outnumbered by the fish, which made him uneasy. _But a single mountain lion,_ Jaime thought, _could kill and feast on dozens of trout in a single day._ The men were in high spirits and Ser Orly was the guest of honor, although Tyrion made sure to share a drink with every single one of the Blackfish’s men from Riverrun as well. At first the water-logged soldiers were leery of his boisterous brother and the hulking hedgeknight that was Tyrion’s shadow, but Lady Stoneheart’s wine loosened their tongues easily enough. The only solemn face in camp was the Blackfish himself. He and Brienne ate with Brynden Tully beside a fire that was bigger than the others with one or two of his archers, though the men wandered away not long after the capons were finished roasting. “Your wounds have been tended to, my Lady?” The Blackfish asked, gentler than Jaime expected.

Brienne’s head shot up from her lap and she nodded quickly. “Yes, thank you.” She brushed her temple carefully with one of her long, tapered fingers, snagging the broken skin with her fingernail. The cut had been cleaned doubly by Jaime after he was finished speaking with Tyrion, as he had not trusted anyone else to care for her. She had not been grateful for his unwrapping, cleaning, and re-bandaging of all her wounds, though had been too shaken to protest much. She had already mourned Lady Stark and he hated for the old cut on her heart, which he had seen healed, to be torn open afresh. 

“Good. You are the Evenstar’s daughter, is that right? Lord Selwyn is a good man and a damn fine swordsmen, I was honored to fight with him.” Jaime looked to his companion at Ser Brynden’s admission, she looked fiercely proud. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d had a daughter, I hadn’t seen him out of his armor all the years I knew him. He must have been quite a bit older than your mother.”

Brienne nodded again quickly, her hair falling into her eyes with her enthusiasm. “Not so much, only ten years I think, Ser.”

“Only?” He laughed. “You look quite a bit like him, though I don’t know that I met your mother. You’re certainly as tall as Selwyn I’d wager.” Jaime balled his hands into fists to see her smile at the man who had insulted her not a fortnight past, though she didn’t know it. He had not told her that particular aspect of his and the Blackfish’s conversation at Riverrun, thinking to spare her. The title _Kingslayer’s Whore_ was enough for her to bear from common hedgeknights and sellswords, he did not want her to hear the moniker from the mouth of a Lord such as Brynden Tully. 

“He’s still taller, but only by a finger’s width,” she grinned, her horsey teeth poking just past the edge of her lips. Brynden Tully smiled back. The older man seemed genuine but Jaime’s hackles rose.

“And you’re betrothed to Jaime Lannister in the end, as it were. It is as your father wanted, I suppose. Congratulations are in order,” he said, tipping back his copper cup and draining it. Brienne would have protested, he knew, but for the slight squeeze of his hand on her leg. Jaime heard the threat, whether Brienne knew it or not. They had kissed before the Blackfish, and she still carried the title of a _Lady_. She was a whore at best, he an Oathbreaker at worst and sentenced to death. He did not want the Blackfish, or any man, to think of her as the Kingslayer’s Whore any longer. Wife, he reasoned, was much more suitable - if not accurate. And Jaime would was not about to escape one noose to lay his head on the block. At least, he reasoned, Lord Tywin would be pleased. Ser Brynden paused, expecting one or both of them to contradict him. When neither did, the Blackfish continued. “If I recall he was very fond of Joanna, though she was younger than us both.” He leaned back and squinted slightly. “And you do have the hair for it.”

Brienne pushed a blond lock from her forehead and tilted her face quizzically. “I’m sorry. I do not take your meaning.”

“You have Lannister hair. That certainly didn’t come from the Evenstar, he was only ever that blond in high summer on that little island of yours. And your skin is paler than his as well, another trademark of the Westerlands. You two could almost be siblings.” The Blackfish let his gaze rest easily on Jaime, grinning. He knew that the next words from Ser Brynden’s mouth wouldn’t be so pleasant. “You go in for that sort of thing though, don’t you, Kingslayer?” 

His mouth curled into a snarl. _Yes_ , he wanted to say, _I do. I fucked my sister and she was sweeter than you could imagine. Brienne’s cunt is nearly the same pink and golden blond as Cersei’s, sweeter too, and I’ll fuck her just the same_. With a deep breath he swallowed the venom and stayed silent. 

Brienne was not so used to the jibes and before he could stop her she was nearly standing to defend him. “Falsehoods,” she lied for him vehemently. It hurt to hear her honest mouth speak dishonestly on his behalf but it warmed his belly. “Stannis Baratheon is a kinslayer,” she growled, “he murdered Renly in cold blood. He is untrustworthy and a discredit to the Storm Lands, that letter is nothing but filth.” 

“Ah, you would know Stannis of course. Tarth is a banner of Storm’s End, how could I forget? Too much talk of Lannisters.” The Blackfish leaned forward and tented his hands. “My niece told me you won the melee at Bitterbridge against Loras Tyrell, the talented Knight of Flowers. He is said to be one of the best swordsmen in Westeros.” Jaime placed his hand over hers and let their fingers twine together on her mud wet lap. “Cat seemed to believe you would never have broken your vows,” Ser Brynden said evenly. Jaime waited. He knew well the preface to a judgment. “Despite the company you keep, I am inclined to agree.” He felt her sag slightly against him, the tension abating in her strong shoulders. 

“I would have died for him if I had known of a way,” she said firmly to the Blackfish and Jaime felt a twist in his gut. _You still may_ , he feared silently, thinking of Stannis’s legendary lack of mercy. _They will have to cut me down first._

The Blackfish looked once more to his niece’s flaming pyre and shook his head. “The lad knew the risks, my Lady. Calling yourself a King is dangerous business,” he finished with a nod before standing. “If you’ll excuse me, it looks like the imp appears to have returned from your camp with more wine, Lannister.” Brienne inclined her head to Ser Brynden as he left and wiped her long fingers on her breeches, not bothering if the already filthy leather stained further. Her cheeks were clean of the dirt and salty tracks from her tears, but she was shifting uncomfortably in her damp clothes and Jaime was wary of her silence. 

“Wench,” he said carefully, looking over his shoulder at his tent, “a bath and a rest would, I think, go a long way in making me feel like a man again. Care to join me?” She bit her lip, shifting on their log and looking down at her soiled and torn tunic. “Come,” he ordered her and she finally agreed. 

They went to the stream not far off, as the sun was setting. Jaime brought fresh clothing, returned to them from their camp by his brother’s merry party. He began to peel off his breeches, jacket and tunic as Brienne tested the water. The air was colder than he would have liked, the sky was darkening rapidly and stars began to light in the orange clouds. After being so close to the fires of R’hllor the cool was a welcome sensation. His companion followed suit, shivering as the air hit her naked, freckled skin. They were past false modesty and he past blushing, though he was able to see her pink cheeks in the dying light. The water was freezing and his muscles shivered involuntarily when he slipped into the stream. There would be ice in the water soon, he wagered, and snow falling and a frost that lasted longer than the morning. They washed quickly, with little eye contact and hurried out, the water around them splashing a multitude of sparkling colors as it reflected the sky and the trees above them. 

Once they were dressed, Jaime holding his tongue in respect for Brienne’s own silence, they made their way to the tent they were given. It was smaller than traveling tent Jaime had, and the pallet was thinner, but they lay down gratefully. Brienne’s hair was damp and curling at her nape but he held his mouth back from kissing the water away when he put his arms around her. He wanted her, to comfort and be comforted, and had watched her in the water hungrily. He was still a man that wanted a woman, but he was not an animal. He let his eyes slip closed and merely covered them with the thick white fur Podrick brought to keep them warm. Jaime willed his body to sleep but was spared from the attempt when she turned beside him, wrapping her strong arms around his waist, and pressed her lips to his in the dark. 

He let his mouth open beneath hers and put his own arms around her, dragging her body over the meager breadth left between them. She was damp and cool but her mouth was warm and inviting and tasted of the spring water and mint sprigs she was given to clean it with. They moved slowly, carefully, his hands guiding her to him and molding himself around her. She whispered his name into the dark and he shuddered with pleasure. _Jaime_. How often had he heard her say it in joy, fear, anger, despair and humor? Never had he heard her sound like she did then. _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime._ Her voice was needy as he trailed his tongue down her neck and across the hollows at the base of her throat. She wrapped a strong leg over his hip, the muscles firm from horse riding and walking, her body guiding her limbs in and embrace her innocence did not quite fully understand. 

Breathlessly he pressed himself against her, their arms a tangle as Jaime turned onto his back and lifted her with him. They had played this game before but it had not been like this, he had been desperate and frantic and she had been unsure. Now he placed his hands at her back and rocked Brienne’s naked sex against him with a deliberate slowness. They were both in long tunics, hers bunched up to her waist but his still trapped beneath her and impeding him from moving too quickly. “You’re sure?” He begged her but Brienne ignored him. “Girl, look at me,” he commanded, “is this what you want?” She opened her eyes, they glowed blue in the dark not cold like chips of ice but warm and dark as the night sky in summer. She nodded firmly, her lip sucked between her teeth and her thighs tightening rhythmically around his waist. He bucked slightly at the pressure but stilled her. “If you cannot say it, then you know not what you want.”

“Yes, Jaime, I want you. Please, I need…” She trailed off, her voice quiet and steady but unsure how to convey what she felt. She didn’t need to say the words, he knew. He had grieved, he had seen death. He knew what it was to want to feel alive and to share that life. He knew what it was to need the heat of another to banish the cold. She had come to him like this before, long ago, and they had spent night upon night in each other’s arms to protect against the Stranger. 

She would not want for love so long as she was beside him. Jaime sat up a tad, rolling deftly and easing her down. He wished it were summer and that at her back was a bed of clover, that the sky was lit with stars above them as a roof and that their tent did not have frost on the grass at the threshold but still he pressed his finger to the bed of blond curls between her thighs. He remembered immediately the heat against his breeches in her chambers at Harrenhal and in the White Sword Tower. He could see behind his eyes the blond curls he had seen dripping golden in that cold stream. “Take my hand,” he whispered. She entwined her right hand with his left as he snaked a finger between her warm folds with the other. She was slick, and growing slicker as he worked. Jaime dipped his middle finger deeper inside her and curled it, using his thumb to circle the swollen nub that arched her back. He kissed his way down her neck, and she lifted the material of her tunic with her free hand to expose more flesh to him in a wanton display that had Jaime groaning. He let his lips tease at the freckled swell of her small breasts, dragging his tongue over her pert, rosy nipples. 

Wave after wave of want crashed over him as Brienne shifted beneath his body impatiently. His fingers making her cry out softly, mewling and distressed at the new feelings like one of Tommen’s kittens. Her strong waist worked to press her hips up, begging for a touch deeper than she had ever known, begging for something which she knew not when he ground his palm against her roughly. Jaime pulled his hand from her junction and yanked the fabric of his tunic up. Brienne opened her eyes, which she had screwed shut underneath the onslaught of pleasure, to watch as he ferally spread her legs wider. He kissed her hard as he eased himself between her thighs. Her hand was still wrapped in his delicately, resting carefully against her cheek, but she was kiss swollen and panting with lust, ravaged as she was by his tongue and teeth. He had seen that look on tavern girls and wenches, paid whores and innocent maids at court, even on Cersei. He licked his lips and slid into her, relishing the gasp and the shocked ‘o’ of her wide mouth. Her eyes slipped closed again as he began to rock against her, finally feeling the wet, warm walls close around him. 

Jaime moaned when Brienne began to rock slowly against him. She moved as she had in Harrenhal, frantically kissing his neck as he curved his back and covered her with each slow, measured thrust. She grunted when they met and he felt her warm that much more, her body sucking him and drowning him in delicious pressure. He was not far from peak, trembling and shaking with effort. He felt cold sweat pooling on his back as his hips sped up their pace, thrusting deeper with every pull. He pressed his fingers between their sweat slicked stomachs and began to circle that swollen nub again. It took but one touch for Brienne to cry out, gasping for air and arching into him. Her breasts lifted up nearly close enough for him to catch in his teeth in a display worthy of any house on Silk Street as she came around him wetly, shaking and sighing. He watched her bounce and shudder hungrily as he continued to thrust and finally empty himself into her. 

He should have pulled away then, and come on the fur that they had discarded in their haste. He should have left her there and returned with a basin to clean her thighs gently and to wipe away his seed and sweat from between their legs. He did none of those things. Instead Jaime lay beside her, still inside her, and cradled Brienne’s blond head on his arm. They remained that way, sated and trembling together in the darkness, until sleep took them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After "Breaker of Chains" I needed to write this so desperately - literally this chapter was simply born out of desperation. That being said, it may show. If it felt OOC, or abrupt, please let me know. I'm thinking it may take me no some time to really get my Jaime legs back after not having written him in so long. I hadn't realized I how much I had missed being in his skin though. It's good to be back. :)


End file.
